Sins

by Gould, Judith

  Two years ago, Miss Junot used a large portion of her personal shares in HJII as collateral for a massive loan to finance Junot Publications, a separate corporate entity held exclusively by Miss Junot. That note reportedly is shortly due. If Miss Junot is unable to meet her commitments on time, the huge bloc of HJII voting shares may become property of the ManhattanBank N.A., which can then, in turn, sell them as it sees fit. This would leave the founder and president of HJII, Miss Junot, with only a minor portion of voting stock, barely enough to exercise a veto concerning a public offering of HJII stock. . .

  There was the crunching of newspaper as Hélène flung the paper aside. Her face was grim. She knew what this article meant. Someone on the board of HJII had deliberately leaked the story to the press, determined to undermine her position as president of the corporation and to weaken her standing with the banks. It was a sneaky tactic designed to throw doubt on her ability to lead. Also, it was a way to publicize her steadfast refusals to allow the company to go public, and thereby pressure her to reconsider. While the other members of the board would realize an enormous profit if she agreed to it, none would gain as much as she. But the thought of unknown investors invading the company she had fought in countless ways and against innumerable odds to create, only to speculate for higher and higher profits, terrified her. In the search for the corporate dollar, quality would undoubtedly slip. To Hélène that was unthinkable. After all, what was HJII but a trend-setter of quality? HJII had a handful of stockholders, and that was the way she wanted it to remain.

  Albert squirmed nervously in his chair. 'I. . .I'm awfully sorry, Miss Junot,' he stammered. 'I just thought you should see it before. . .' Helplessly he spread his hands apart.

  She looked at him. 'Yes. Thank you, Albert,' she said in her throaty voice. 'I appreciate it. Really.'

  Then she got up, clapped a weary hand on his shoulder, left the conference room, and walked slowly down the corridor to her office. I've been betrayed, she thought miserably. And not for the first time, either. The only thing that doesn't change is the dirty taste it leaves in your mouth.

  Of course HJII had problems, she admitted to herself. What company didn't? But to leak such problems under the guise of 'news' to The Wall Street Journal was despicable and inexcusable. Who was the culprit? De Léger? She wouldn't put it past him. Still, she couldn't be sure; the others were not much better.

  She could be absolutely certain of only one thing. The leakage to The Wall Street Journal was not a warning shot across the bow. It was an open declaration of war. And long or short, she knew it would be a bitter conflict. One or all of the board wanted control of Hélène Junot International, Inc. They had for years. And she knew why. Not because they cared for a single share of their Junot stock. Not even because they cared an iota for money or fashion or publishing. But because they hated her enough to try to take from her the only thing she'd ever loved and cared for—her corporation.

  She made a left turn at the end of the corridor and stopped in front of a polished teak door. At eye level, the small gold letters spelled a single word: 'President.' It looked so alien. So weighty. She wished her title would read 'Founder and Artistic Director' instead. That was what she was proudest of.

  She put her hand on the knob and opened the door. The steady droning of a typewriter greeted her as she stepped into the outer office. Julie, her secretary, was busy attacking a pile of letters that had accumulated over the holidays. Throughout the building and behind her back Julie was known as 'The Sphinx.' Her reputation for guarding the entrance to Hélène's inner office was legend.

  At the sound of the door opening, Julie glanced up suspiciously, her fingers never leaving the keyboard. Her dark brown eyes fluttered with surprise. 'Why, Miss Junot!' she exclaimed. Abruptly she stopped typing, her fingers poised in midair.

  Hélène smiled. 'Good morning, Julie.'

  'You're back early! There wasn't even notification that the plane. . .'

  'Yes, I know,' Hélène answered. 'I thought I'd rush back very quietly, so I chartered a Lear jet.' She paused and said slowly, 'Not quietly enough, it seems. I hear the Comte is waiting.'

  Julie made a face. 'Inside,' she said. Then she frowned, leaned forward, and placed an ear beside the intercom on her desk.

  Hélène looked at her strangely. 'What in—?'

  Julie put a finger to her lips to silence her. Then she straightened with satisfaction and pointed at the intercom. Hélène understood. She nodded, leaned close, and listened carefully. She could hear a faint humming sound. Hubert de Léger had switched it on from the inside office. He was eavesdropping.

  Hélène shook her head. This didn't surprise her in the least. She knew the Comte better than anyone else did. He was sly and brash and managed to force his way in wherever it pleased him to do so. Even the Sphinx's determination was no match for his will. Nothing short of armed guards could have kept him out. Hélène shrugged. 'Any messages?'

  'These.' Julie handed her a sheaf of small pink message memos. 'Also, your brother called. He wants to see you privately before the board meeting this afternoon. He says it's very important.'

  Hélène nodded. She would see Edmond as soon as she got rid of the Comte. 'Thank you, Julie,' she said. 'And please make certain we're not disturbed. Hold all calls.'

  Julie nodded and went back to her typing. Hélène walked over to the inner office door and began to turn the knob, but stopped and waited. She closed her eyes for a few seconds as she steeled herself for the confrontation with de Léger. Then she entered her office.

  It was a corner office that actually consisted of four rooms—office, kitchenette, bedroom, and bath. All the rest of the offices and corridors in the Junot Building had been decorated by an expensive design firm, but Hélène had warned them about touching her office. 'Hands off this one!' she had told the aging decorator whose firm she had chosen. He had been horrified. 'You try to touch this suite and I'll have your head on a platter!' she warned.

  In the large room which served as her office, the two outside walls were floor-to-ceiling windows. One faced the solemn Forbes Building; the other looked down Fifth Avenue to the stately arch guarding the entrance to Washington Square Park. She had chosen this corner for her office expressly for that view. The arch reminded her of the Arc de Triomphe in her beloved Paris.

  The inside walls were an innocuous white and the floor covering was nubby beige wall-to-wall wool carpet. In these respects it looked like any other corner office in New York. However, Hélène had used her personal stamp of good taste, style, and memories to create her own luxurious yet eminently comfortable environment.

  The walls were hung with framed fashion sketches, her favorites from past issues of Les Modes. The furniture was her own, lovingly hunted-down pieces of ancient French furniture whose meticulous restoration she had personally directed. Whether she was in town or not, a vase of fresh flowers always sat on her desk.

  One glance told Hélène that the Comte had made himself at home in her sanctuary. He sat in the delicately carved French chair behind her Louis Quinze desk. The vase of fresh flowers had been moved aside, and both of his damp patent-leather loafers rested informally on the highly polished marquetry top. In one red hand he held a glass of Napoleon brandy that he had served himself from the bar behind her desk, in the other a cigarette with an enormous ash cocked on its end.

  Hubert de Léger blew a stream of smoke skyward and looked at Hélène. Amusement glinted in his jet-black eyes. 'Entrez!' he slurred. The ash fell away from the cigarette and landed on the spotless beige carpet. 'My beautiful Hélène,' he said in French. 'I have been expecting you. Please. Come in. I do not bite. And even if I did, I am not suffering from rabies at the moment.' He broke into a series of thin, hollow laughs.

  Hélène closed the door quietly behind her. For a moment she looked at him; then she turned her face away. There was repulsion in her eyes. She knew he drank heavily. But my God, she thought, not to this extent at nine- thirty in the
morning.

  'Can I offer my beautiful Hélène a drink?' he asked mockingly as he hoisted his glass. 'The bar in this office is most superbly stocked.'

  'Thank you, no,' she replied coldly.

  'Hmm. C'est dommage.' He made a childish face.

  For an instant she remembered how he had once looked with his youthful, dashing good looks, his raven-black hair, his stiff posture, his lean, athletic physique, his sober black eyes and determined cleft chin. Now his jaw had slackened, his hair was gray, and his once-sober eyes were glassy from drink. Could this be the same man she had known since childhood? Was this the Hubert de Léger who had at one time wooed her so ardently?

  Tightening her lips, she crossed the room and wordlessly looked down at his feet. Anger surged through her. He was playing games, seeing just how much he could get away with. Suddenly she grabbed his feet and pushed them off.

  He heaved a sigh and let them drop heavily to the carpet. 'My dear, that was not very nice of you,' he said reprimandingly.

  'Hubert,' she said in a peculiar warning tone, 'you take far too many liberties.'

  He raised his eyebrows, but she didn't notice. She was moving the vase back to the spot where it always stood, and then slipped out of her mink. Haphazardly she flung it over the back of one of the two little Louis Quinze chairs facing her desk. Both were upholstered in ancient cracked green leather. Then she walked over beside his chair and stood there for a moment looking down at him. He stared back up at her with a pretended lack of understanding.

  'Hubert? Must you be reminded?' she finally asked. 'This is my office.'

  He looked at her with a blank expression. Then he slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead in mock forgetfulness. 'How thoughtless of me!' he said. 'Of course, it still is, isn't it? How silly of me.' He frowned ostentatiously, peered deep into his brandy, and said slowly, 'Well, we might as well be truthful. It still is your office. And it will be, at least until this week is up.'

  'At least,' she said, her voice curt and razor-sharp. 'My chair, Hubert. . .'

  'Your. . .'

  'Chair. If you insist on plaguing me with your company, I'm afraid you shall have to do it from there.' She pointed to the empty chair in front of her desk.

  He raised his glass in a silent, airy toast and took his time getting to his feet. His lips were twisted into an ugly smile. After making a courteous, if ungenuine display of helping her into her seat, he sat where she'd specified.

  'Charming office. . .such a marvelous view,' he said approvingly. 'But the place needs some changes. Too feminine for my tastes. . .too many curlicued French touches.'

  Hélène stiffly folded her hands and stared down at them. If she said nothing, perhaps he would burn himself out.

  'You know,' he said, 'by next Monday I may have to call up a design firm and have them redecorate this place. 'Tear it all out!' I'll demand. 'Make it sleek and masculine.''

  She was only half-listening; her mind was racing over the possibilities of how to get him out of the office. Some way that was quick, yet wouldn't give him a chance to create a scene.

  He stubbed out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. Then, pretending to notice her mink for the first time, he reached over to the chair beside him and hoisted up one of the sleeves. 'The famous Blackglama?' he asked.

  'Yes,' Hélène said quietly.

  He laughed. 'How marvelous! Every woman in this city would commit arson to get one. But you? All you have to do is model one coat for Richard Avedon and. . .presto! You're a living Blackglama 'legend.' Ergo, Hélène Junot, who by the way has whole closets full of furs, gets another one for free. And not only that, but the title 'legend' as well!' He leered at her. 'You've always wanted a title, eh, Hélène?'

  Hélène looked at him steadily. 'I don't think you came here to discuss the coat, Hubert,' she said dryly.

  He let the sleeve drop. 'As a matter of fact, I didn't.'

  'Then why did you come?'

  'Our mutual business interests,' he replied. 'Hélène Junot, of course. The corporation and the woman.'

  She stiffened, her violet eyes flashing warily. 'In that case, I'm afraid we have nothing to discuss.'

  'Nothing?'

  'Nothing whatsoever. As you're only too well aware, the board meeting is this afternoon. I suggest you discuss any pertinent complaints you have regarding my publishing policies—or me—openly at that time.'

  'Bring the dirty laundry out into the open and it disappears, eh?' He clucked his tongue. 'My, but such a display of courage. But then, you were never a quitter, were you, Hélène? You've always gotten everything you set that iron heart of yours on, haven't you?'

  'Hubert,' she said wearily, 'please get to the point.'

  He lit another cigarette. 'Ah, but you see, I'm getting there. I've come to warn you. I want you to be prepared before you set foot in that boardroom.'

  'Prepared? Whatever for?'

  'Corporate slaughter, my dear.'

  YESTERDAY

  I Murder

  — 1 —

  Paris, 1944

  It was after three o'clock, and Hélène was playing in the park. The January afternoon was cold and windy and the narrow streets were nearly deserted. It was very quiet. Overhead, the sky was clear blue and the sun was shining. Completely surrounded by buildings, the little park was in deep shadow.

  Across the street was her house. It was almost identical to the other grim, crooked houses that sagged against one another like rows of tired dominoes, each dependent on the next for support. But her house stood out proudly from the others. The windows on the ground floor were covered over with thick iron bars twisted into fanciful curlicues, and the front door was painted bright yellow. Canary yellow, Maman called it. And above the snow-covered rooftop she could glimpse the white dome and cupolas of Sacre Coeur gleaming in the sunshine.

  She thought she heard something. She stopped playing with Antoinette, her porcelain doll, and listened carefully. It was a rumbling noise, still far away. But it was coming closer. A truck is headed this way, she thought with surprise.

  She waited in anticipation. Motorized traffic in this working-class section of Paris was rare. There were no taxis or private automobiles. Parisians rode bicycles everywhere. Only the Boches and their collaborators experienced the luxury of traveling in cars and trucks. The streets of Montmartre were old and crooked, many of them too narrow to accommodate even the smallest automobiles.

  The noise of the truck engine grew louder, and she put her lips close to Antoinette's ear. 'Watch, Antoinette,' she instructed the doll in a soft whisper. 'Watch and you'll soon see your first truck!' She straightened the yellowed lace of Antoinette's gown. After all, Antoinette was a lady, and ladies must look their best when they are seen in public.

  Two minutes later a gray truck came roaring around the corner from the rue Durantin.

  As she watched, it switched into low gear and rattled uphill, coming closer. The snow chains clattered and the gray tarpaulin stretched over the back flapped in the wind. Plainly she could see the swastika stenciled on the sides of the cab. Even as a child she already knew what it meant.

  In a moment, the truck had passed by. She wrinkled her nose at the offensive stench of gasoline fumes. Curiously she stared after it. She wondered what it was doing in Montmartre. Then there was the sound of grinding gears as it turned a corner and disappeared. The noise of the motor slowly died away. A minute later there was silence. But a cloud of gray exhaust still hung heavy in the air.

  She looked around to see if she was being watched. She wasn't. Then she did what she had seen other people do many times. She spat in the street. She was only seven years old, but she had already picked up the habits of older Parisians. One could not spit directly at the Boches. That was too dangerous. But one could spit after him when his back was turned.

  It was almost half an hour after the truck had gone by that she had the feeling something was wrong. She had been building miniature snowmen on the slats of the par
k bench for Antoinette. Suddenly, somehow, she just knew.

  She felt a sudden prickling of her spine.

  Something was wrong.

  She glanced across the street at her house. Everything appeared normal and peaceful. Nothing seemed amiss. Nothing. . .except the front door was open a crack and a woman was standing outside it. Hélène couldn't see her face underneath the black wool scarf, but she thought she recognized Madame Courbet, the wife of a switchboard operator at the Prefecture of Police. Still, she couldn't be certain. Whoever it was gestured frantically to someone inside, all the while throwing furtive glances over her shoulder. Then the woman hurried off. Hélène still wasn't able to see her face. The scarf was pulled too far forward, and the woman's face was in shadow.

  Hélène would never know what gave her that feeling, but the moment she felt the prickling along her spine, she knew Maman needed her. She didn't waste any time. She picked up Antoinette and ran across the street and up the three steps to the canary-yellow door.

  It opened before she even reached it.

  'Quickly!' Michelle, Maman's huge, plump servant, hissed at her. Michelle didn't even wait for Hélène to stomp the show off her shoes. Roughly the thick fingers of her hands grabbed hold of the girl and pulled her inside.

  She slammed the door shut behind her and bolted it. The foyer was dark. The curtains were drawn, and between them, a chink of light showed.

  Hélène looked up into Michelle's tense red moon face. 'What's the matter?' she asked.

  Michelle shrugged and brusquely turned away. Perhaps she was moody because it was so cold in the house, the week's coal rations already depleted. Despite her size, Michelle didn't take well to the cold.

  Michelle had big peasant bones and enormous breasts. She was the maid, housekeeper, and nanny all rolled into one. Like a member of the family, she was devoted beyond endearment. Hélène knew that Maman couldn't afford to pay Michelle wages anymore, not with Papa gone all the time. Yet Michelle stayed on.