She nodded weakly, letting him push her away so that the dresser could throw a chinchilla wrap over her. Suddenly she shivered. Until now, she had only been afraid. She had forgotten how cold it was.
'Why didn't you tell me you're frightened of heights?' he asked her.
She looked at him, and a shroud seemed to fall down over her eyes. How could she explain to a virtual stranger about her ambition? That this was just a necessary step toward it?
'I'd like to use you again,' he said as they took the elevator back down to the ground.
She smiled bleakly. 'What's next? Hanging off the wing of an airplane in flight?'
He laughed. 'Don't plant any seeds in my mind that you will be sorry for later.'
'I won't be sorry,' she said, 'because I have no intention of becoming a stunt woman.' The elevator came to a halt and she started out the door.
He described his ideas for the next layout in detail while they waited for a taxi on the Avenue Gustave Eiffel. He seemed pleased at the opportunity of having an attentive audience, and as he talked, his eyes shone and he made animated gestures. 'What I have in mind is the reconstruction of a murder. A crime of passion. It will be a photo essay of five or six pictures. In the first one I'll have a woman and her lover in bed. In the second picture, the husband arrives and they quarrel. Then she shoots him. The next-to-last picture will have him lying in a pool of blood and she'll be standing over him, smoke trailing from the barrel of her revolver. And in the last picture I'll have her back in the arms of her lover.'
Hélène found herself laughing. The idea sounded contrived and absurd. It was a farce. 'Those are supposed to be fashion pictures?' she asked incredulously.
He looked at her with such a hurt expression that the laughter died in her throat. 'Of course,' he said seriously. 'They'll be a sensation. Will you model for them?'
She thought for a moment. 'On one condition.'
'And that is?'
'That this 'crime' takes place on terra firma.'
He grinned. 'You have my word.' He paused for a moment. 'But I need to have your word, also.'
She looked surprised. 'What for?'
'You know that I'm on the staff of Vogue?'
She nodded.
'Well, the crime pictures will be for L'Officiel. Sometimes I moonlight as a free-lance photographer. Vogue winks at it as long as my credit doesn't appear with the pictures. Of course, everyone who knows my style can immediately pick up on who did them. Just don't advertise that I did the pictures.'
'You can trust me,' she said, fighting to keep her face serious. 'I won't tell a soul.'
By the time she came home from the atelier a week after the shooting, it was, as usual, a quarter to six. She closed the front door wearily, crossed to the telephone table, put her purse down, and began to pull off her gloves. She sniffled. She hoped she wasn't coming down with a cold. She started as the telephone began to ring. Quickly she reached down and picked up the receiver.
'Hélène? It's Jacques.'
'Jacques,' she said, 'this is a surprise.'
'Listen, I called to tell you that the proof sheets are printed. The photos turned out even better than I'd expected! You're naturally photogenic. Anyway, what do you say I pop over and show them to you?'
'Now?'
'Why not?'
'I appreciate your calling, Jacques, but I'm afraid I'm tied up tonight.' That was the truth. The Comte was in town and he'd be spending the night. Just thinking about it made her grimace. She'd be up half the night. What she really wanted to do was crawl under the covers and sleep for thirteen or fourteen hours. Maybe then this cold would work out of her system.
'Christ,' he mumbled with bitchy disappointment. 'Well, I suppose there's plenty of time for you to see them.' Then his voice took on a brighter tone. 'Before I forget, what do you say we take the L'Officiel shots on Saturday?'
'So soon?'
'Sure. Don't forget, it takes months before the issues hit the stands. The sooner they're taken, the sooner you'll be a star.'
She smiled. 'Saturday it is. I'll call you on Friday to confirm?'
'Fine. Talk to you then,' he said. ''Bye.'
She said good-bye, and when she heard the click at his end, she dropped the receiver back down on the cradle. At the same moment she noticed a letter propped up against the vase. She recognized the envelope immediately. It was from the Karl Haberle Agency. Her heart pounded as she snatched it up. The first thought that entered her mind was that Haberle had found Schmidt and the white-faced one.
She tore open the envelope, took out the letter, and unfolded it. The type was thick, black, and smudgy, as if the typewriter it had been pounded out on was a piece of antiquity. As she read, her excitement faded. It was nothing more than a progress report—a report of no progress at all.
Hélène balled up the paper angrily and tossed it into the wastebasket. What was it with Haberle? Did she have to pound him over the head for him to realize that she was dead serious? She would have time to draft a quick letter to him. The Comte wouldn't be here for another hour.
She went into the salon, sat down behind the leather-covered desk, and took a sheet of vellum from the box in the top drawer. She dipped the pen into the inkwell, hesitated for a moment, and then swiftly scrawled the reply:
Dear Herr Haberle,
I have received your letter. I think I have made it quite clear that no matter how long or expensive the task, I am totally dedicated to finding the men who have perpetrated such evil. I shall not rest until then. Please continue and let me know if there is any progress.
Sincerely,
Hélène Junot
She read it through, wrote out an envelope, and affixed a stamp on it. Then she rang for the maid. When she came, Hélène handed her the letter. 'Marthe, post this immediately, please.'
'Oui, mademoiselle.' The maid gave a little curtsy and hurried back out.
Hélène rose to her feet and went upstairs. After taking a quick bath, she slipped into a rose-colored peignoir and went back downstairs to the salon. Efficiently she set about arranging things just the way the Comte liked them. It was Marthe's job, but she insisted on doing it herself. That was the way she knew things would be perfect. Not that Marthe couldn't be trusted. It was just that the Comte was fussy. He insisted that everything had to be just the way he wanted it. Eggs, three minutes to the dot. Bathwater, forty-one degrees. Drinking glasses, polished.
Finally everything was ready. The big ashtray and the humidor on the cocktail table, the soft lighting, the low mood music, the iced champagne.
She turned around as the door chimes tinkled. The Comte never rang. He had his own key. She shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps he had misplaced it. She could hear Marthe's footsteps in the hall.
'That's all right, Marthe,' she called out. 'I'll get it.'
'Oui, mademoiselle.' Marthe's footsteps immediately receded.
Hélène went out into the foyer. By reflex, she ran her hands over her hair and rearranged the front of her peignoir so that her breasts appeared to push up out of her décolletage. Then she pulled the door open.
Hubert de Léger was standing there, dressed in evening clothes. He didn't say a word. He simply pushed the door wide, staggered inside, and slammed it shut behind him.
She stared directly into his eyes, her pupils completely encircled with white edges. She sensed his drunkenness even before she smelled it.
Quickly she tried to block his way. 'Hubert, please. This is not the time to visit,' she said.
He began to laugh and pushed her aside. 'I wanted to pay my respects,' he said gruffly. 'Besides, this house does belong to my family, in case you've forgotten.'
'It belongs to your father,' she corrected him in an icy tone.
He started toward the salon. 'Speaking of my father, where is he? Upstairs asleep already?'
'Hubert!' she said sharply. 'I won't have you talking about your father like that!'
He gave a low laugh. 'You're one to talk! I s
uspect I'll get a lecture on virtue next. Ah. The salon is nice and cozy. We can have a little chat.' He rubbed his hands together and crossed the Savonnerie to the sideboard, where he poured himself a slug of Armagnac. Then he walked toward the couch, picked an ice cube out of the champagne bucket, and tossed it into the glass. He looked down at the drink as he sloshed it around in the glass. 'The Americans drink everything with ice,' he mumbled. 'I learned it from some of the students at the university. There are a lot of Americans there, you know?' He looked at her.
'I didn't know,' she said quietly.
He tossed his head back and downed the drink in one big swallow. Then he grimaced and his eyes flicked around again. 'Very cozy, yes.' He nodded slowly. 'A fire roaring in the grate. Mood music. Champagne. . .' He reached for the bottle and pulled it out of its nest of ice. 'Dom Perignon. Good, good.' He leered at her.
She felt the heat in his eyes and pulled the peignoir tighter around her. 'Hurry up and finish your drink,' she said. 'Your father will be here at any moment.'
He grinned. 'You mean you're not going to sit with me?'
She sniffed. 'No, I will not.' She crossed over to the window, parted the curtains nervously, and looked out. Somehow she would have to get rid of Hubert before the Comte arrived. The question was how to do it without him making a scene.
He came up behind her and caught her arm and without any preamble said, 'I want you.' He spun her around, his hand pulling her toward him.
She struggled to push him away. 'Leave me alone!' she hissed, breathing deeply. Her eyes flashed fire.
Suddenly he let go of her arm and stepped back. 'My, aren't you the coy one,' he said nastily. 'I'll comfort myself with the idea that I don't take hand-me-downs.' He went to pour himself another drink, and she watched him toss it down. Her contempt for him was growing stronger by the minute.
He slammed the glass down on the sideboard and looked at her for a long moment. 'I'll let you off the hook. I'm leaving,' he said sullenly.
She didn't answer, but a breath of relief escaped her lips. She followed him out into the foyer. When he reached the front door he turned around and looked back at her. 'Just remember, I turned you down,' he said pointedly in an ugly voice. 'You've got the distinction of being the only whore in the city who's been rejected.'
She could feel a searing blush rising up her face and looked away.
He flung open the door and then drew back. The Comte was standing outside, key in hand. Hubert stared at him for a moment, then regained his unseemly composure and grinned nastily. 'Don't worry, Father. I didn't touch her.' He gave a jerky shrug of his shoulders and glared at Hélène. 'Funny how the French will cheat on their wives but insist that their whores remain faithful.' Then he pushed past the Comte and stumbled down the steps.
The Comte stared impassively after his son. Then he came inside and closed the door quietly. He looked across at Hélène. 'You shouldn't have let him in,' he said softly.
'I didn't,' she said, twisting her fingers in agitation. 'The chimes rang and I thought it was you. When I opened the door, he pushed his way in.'
'All right,' the Comte said wearily. He followed her into the salon, shrugged off his coat, and threw it over the back of a chair. He looked thoughtfully down at his feet. 'Sit down. I think it's time we had a little talk.'
She stared at him. 'I'm sorry that you don't believe me, Philippe. He really did push his way in.'
'That's not what I wanted to talk to you about.'
Hélène looked surprised. 'Then what is it?'
'Sit down.'
She was startled by his sharp command. Slowly she took a seat, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at him curiously. She had no idea what this was about. She knew that he had many business interests in Paris. But business problems or no, he shouldn't be taking them out on her.
Idly he paced the carpet. 'I've always trusted you, haven't I?'
'Yes,' she said cautiously.
Unexpectedly he took one hand out of his pocket and came up with a tangle of jewels. She recognized them instantly. They were the ones she had sold to Cheops. Almost casually he dropped them down on the sideboard. 'Then how do you explain this?'
Her face had suddenly gone pale. Her eyes were riveted on the incriminating jewels. That slimy Cheops had lied, she thought angrily. She had been a fool ever to trust him. All along, he must have been selling the jewels to the major dealers and not to transient tourists as he'd assured her. And these dealers kept careful records of every item they sold, and to whom. They must have contacted the Comte.
'I bought them back, but what I want to know is .. . why?'
She tore her eyes away from the jewels and looked at him. 'I needed the money,' she replied.
'What for?'
Suddenly she looked weary. 'It's a long story, Philippe.'
'Tell me. I have all night.'
For a moment she sat in thoughtful silence; then she looked into his face and shook her head. Her vow to destroy those who had destroyed her family was something she had to do alone. It couldn't be shared with anyone, least of all him. She was only beginning to realize that her past was her weakness but that it was also her greatest strength. From it stemmed her ambition, her indomitable will to survive. It did not seem right to have to bare her vulnerability for him to see. 'No,' she said slowly. 'It's something I don't want to discuss.'
'All right, you leave me no choice,' the Comte replied. 'It is over. As soon as possible, I want you to find another place to live.'
'So it's over,' Hélène said softly. 'Just like that.'
He smiled grimly. 'I demand total honesty from everyone I deal with. I feel I can no longer trust you.'
Hélène made a thoughtful face and nodded slowly. 'All right,' she said slowly, rising to her feet. 'I shall go upstairs and pack my things immediately. It will take me half an hour. Then I shall call a taxi and go to a hotel.'
'Don't forget these. They're yours.' He picked up the jewels and threw them at her. Some of them hit her, others scattered on the carpet around her feet. She stared stoically first at him, then down at them. On principle, she started to turn around and walk away. But she was a practical woman. You've earned those jewels, a little voice inside her asserted. You've been at his beck and call for over a year now. You let him own you. You've even carried his baby and let it be torn out of your womb. Because of it, you'll never be able to bear children again. If you've ever worked for anything, you've worked for these. As if in slow motion, she fell to her knees and began picking them up. When she reached for the last earring, she lifted her eyes. The Comte was watching her. She got to her feet, drew herself up with dignity, and went upstairs to pack.
The next day she took all the jewels to Van Cleef and Arpels, where she sold them for an excellent price. She deposited the check in her savings account and then found a small apartment on the highly respectable rue Paul Valery, just off the Avenue Foch.
4
A week later, Jacques was set to shoot the photos for L'Officiel. He had borrowed an apartment on the Avenue Foch to use as a location. Besides Hélène, there were two men dressed in custom-tailored tuxedos that were clearly British. Even the French, world-renowned geniuses when it came to designing women's clothing, had to acknowledge that when it came to men's garments, the English were without peer. One of the men would pose as Hélène's lover, the other as her husband.
Hélène came out of the study which they used as a dressing room and stopped in the doorway of the salon. Jacques was sitting in an armchair; her 'lover' and her 'husband' were forced to stand so that they wouldn't wrinkle their tuxedos. They stared at her. She wore the latest gown from Odile Joly. It had a strapless top that encased her breasts, a narrow, form-fitting skirt that went to the calf, and was entirely encrusted with sequins and colored rhinestones shimmering in the intricate swirls of an arabesque.
Jacques got to his feet slowly and motioned for Hélène to come closer. When she was in the center of the room, he gestured for her to st
op. She stood there silently, watching him. His face was expressionless. Then he walked around her in circles. Finally he stopped, frowned, and put his hand on his chin. 'It's a beautiful gown,' he admitted slowly.
She tilted her head forward and looked down at herself. It was one of the most exquisite creations anyone could ever have imagined. Costly, too. A house in the suburbs carried the same price tag as these few meters of fabric.
'Odile Joly calls this a gown fit for a Persian princess,' she said, frowning, and slowly walking over to the pier glass between the two tall windows. She watched herself critically. Each time she moved, her body flashed with brilliance. It was as if a million gems were glued right onto her body. She turned around. 'You don't like it.' It was a statement.
'Go and take it off,' Jacques told her. 'You look like a samurai warrior. Then we'll put on our thinking caps and see how we can remedy this situation.'
Hélène was disappointed, but it was obvious that Jacques had made up his mind. She shrugged her shoulders and obediently returned to the study. She let the dresser undo the back of the gown and wearily stepped out of it. She pulled on a white silk robe, tied the sash around the wrist, and went back out to the salon.
Jacques looked at her and nodded. 'That's much more becoming.'
'You're not going to take her picture in that!' one of the male models squeaked incredulously.
Suddenly Jacques snapped his fingers excitedly. 'That's it! Why didn't I think of it before!' His face broke into a smile. Casually he sat back, then stretched out his legs and clasped his hands behind his head.
Hélène placed her hands on her hips. 'Well?' she demanded imperiously.
'We'll do the unheard-of,' Jacques said. 'Instead of dressing you, we'll dress them. It'll be a new angle. You know, the way women would like their men to dress. We'll get them a few more tuxedos. A different one for each picture, but similar enough so they won't detract from the overall theme.'
Hélène stared at him for a moment, then paced the room. 'What do I tell Odile Joly?' she wailed. 'She did me a personal favor by getting that gown out in time for the photos!'
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