Hélène nodded. She knew what the SBM was. The Societe des Bains de Mer et Cercle des Etrangers. It was the organization which controlled or owned a good portion of Monte Carlo, including the Hotel de Paris, the casino, and the magnificently planted gardens.
'Anyway, the way I see it, Madame Epaminondas doesn't have anything to gripe about. She's come a long way, you know. Greek peasant girl makes good, that sort of thing. She got a settlement of fifteen million dollars from Monsieur Skouri, and as soon as the divorce was final what did she do? Turned around and skipped off with Monsieur Epaminondas, that's what! They say he's good for at least a hundred million. Of course, Monsieur Skouri's worth three times that, but she doesn't have anything to worry about really, now, does she?' He stopped short suddenly, 'How much time have you got?'
Hélène was thrown by the sudden change of subject. 'I. . .I should be back at the hotel by six-thirty.'
He frowned and glanced at his wristwatch. 'That gives us a little more than three hours. Nina!'
The pixie-faced girl looked up and caught his nod. Obediently she went over to the door, quickly turned the key in the lock, and flipped the 'Ferme' sign around to face the sidewalk outside.
Etienne was now all business. 'It will take us all of three hours,' he said, clapping his hands. 'Now, then, have you given any thought to the kind of hairstyle you want?'
Hélène shook her head. 'Not really. But I want something very elegant.' She gave a faint smile. 'Even showy.'
'Ah.' He stepped back, strummed his lips, and frowned thoughtfully for a moment. 'I take it you're going to the casino?'
She nodded.
'What are you going to wear?'
'A Marcel Manet,' she answered, adding: 'He's a new designer. The gown's of pale blue satin, almost white, actually, and looks sort of like a Grecian toga.'
'Sounds lovely.' He looked thoughtful. 'Jewelry?'
'I'm not certain. Aquamarines or coral.'
He came close and placed his fingers lightly on her head. While he felt her hair, her eyes went to the big round mirror. She watched him closely.
'I think we should stick with an overall Greek look, then,' he suggested. 'What do you say we part your hair right here in the middle and have it sprout tiny, delicate curls all the way back to here? Then, here on the back, we'll pin on a fabulous fall.'
She thought for a moment; there was an unsure look in her eyes. What he was suggesting was elaborate and extremely formal. She wondered whether it was too formal for the casino.
He sensed her indecision. 'It'll look spectacular,' he assured her. 'But I'll show you what I mean, and you can make up your own mind.' He turned around. 'Ambrose!'
His male assistant perked up.
'The Grecian curls. Bring out all the dark shades.'
Ambrose nodded and hurried to the back of the salon. A moment later he came back out with a stack of boxes. Etienne frowned as he went through all of them. Finally he selected a thick black fall and pinned it expertly to the back of Hélène's head. 'It's a fantastic look,' he said. 'Sort of a la Elizabeth Taylor. You could even wear a jewel on the hairpiece.'
Roxanne and Nina held up hand mirrors so that Hélène could see herself from all angles. Slowly she nodded. Etienne was right. The elaborate hairdo would set off the classic simplicity of the gown sensationally. He had good taste, she thought, even if he did borrow liberally from Alexandre. But what the hell, she thought. If you had to borrow, just make sure you borrowed from the best. And she liked his idea about wearing a jewel in her hair. She knew exactly which one. The large pear-shaped pearl mounted in white gold and surrounded by a spray of aquamarines. Any other jewels were out of the question. They would only detract. Her arms, neck, and ears would have to be bare. For a wrap, there was the thin satin stole that was an integral part of the gown. For footwear there were the delicate silver evening sandals. The matching white-gold-mesh clutch purse with her aquamarine initial on the clasp would be the crowning touch. There was no doubt in her mind but that she would make heads turn. And long ago, that first night when she had set foot in Maxim's, she had learned that elegant dress made a world of difference. It closed the social gulf a bit and made you feel you were at the top of the world. Yes, she would be stunning. The only thing that still bothered her were the games. Suddenly she had an idea. She knew that Etienne liked to gossip, but she decided to take that risk. Better that a few stories circulated about her than that she made a fool of herself tonight. Just as Roxanne was about to rinse her hair, she turned to Etienne. 'You wouldn't happen to know how to gamble, would you?' she asked huskily.
He looked at her sympathetically. 'Like everyone else, I know enough to get by'
'What's the easiest game to learn?'
He didn't hesitate. 'Roulette.'
Her face took on an enthusiastic expression. 'I need a crash course,' she said. 'To tell you the truth, I've never been to a casino in my life.'
'That's no problem. By the time your hair is done, you'll know everything there is to know about roulette, and then some.'
Hélène looked around the roulette table as the bets were placed. The multicolor chips rose like neat clusters of miniature skyscrapers from the green baize. Each chip represented anywhere from five francs on up. She estimated that a fortune lay on that table.
Almost furtively she leaned forward to place her lone chip on the black, and then quickly withdrew her hand and stood back. She had been watching the game carefully. Etienne had taught her just enough so that she wouldn't get confused. 'Bet on the red or the black,' he'd said. 'Forget about the numbers.' So far, the wheel had run to the red. She reasoned it was time for the black to come up.
The croupier spun the wheel, and the dressed-up crowd quickly placed their last bets.
'Rien ne va plus,' the croupier announced.
No more bets could now be placed, and the gamblers watched intently as the ball that was to decide the fate of their money was tossed into the wheel. It did a few hops and then began to do a wide roll.
The tension around the table was tangible. The society matrons' hooded eyes were like those of eagles, their pupils darting and flashing like the diamonds around their necks. One young blond, on the arm of a fat old German who kept mopping his brow with a handkerchief, was almost jumping with excitement. A tall, elderly gentleman watched the ball with a studiously expressionless face, but his fingers ticked nervously against his trouser seams. A younger, shorter man beside Hélène glanced at her and smiled nervously.
She smiled back at him and then watched the ball as the wheel began to slow down. The gamblers held their breath; the ladies pressed their red lips more firmly together and clutched their mink stoles tighter. Then the wheel came to a stop. The ball did a final, almost lazy roll. Hélène watched it without breathing. She was going to win! It would land in the black!
But it only looked that way. The elusive ball hesitated and then dropped neatly into the red compartment labeled thirty-four. The croupier expertly raked in the chips.
Hélène sighed and turned away. Her lone chip was being scraped away along with the others. Not that she'd really thought she'd had a chance at winning. It was just that controlled though she was, she had been excited during that last half-second interval when the ball had nearly dropped into the black.
She felt Jacques pull her aside as the next batch of chips was placed. 'Are you winning?' he asked.
She shook her head morosely, her Grecian curls doing a little dance. 'I've played five games and lost all five,' she said wearily, opening her palm to show some chips. 'These are all I have left.'
He made a face and clucked his tongue in mock sympathy. 'Poor princess. Lose much?'
'Twenty-five francs.'
He laughed. 'I should have known you'd be placing the unite de mise. Shame on you!' He wagged a finger at her. 'A rich girl like you should be reckless. You shouldn't be in the public rooms. You should be in the Salles Privees, where the stakes are respectable.'
'Is that where th
e Czarina is?'
He shook his head and grinned. 'She's in the Salle des Ameriques playing blackjack, cursing in Russian, and losing her shirt!'
Hélène smiled. 'She must be a sight.'
He nodded. 'I'm going to try my hand at craps. Want to join me?'
She shook her head. 'I think I'll stay right here.'
He lifted his hand and crossed his fingers. 'Good luck.'
Now she looked around the roulette table again. While she and Jacques had been talking, she'd missed placing her new bet. The sharp eyes of the gamblers were already on the spinning wheel.
She shrugged, turned away from the table, cashed in the remainder of her chips, and started out of the room. When she reached the magnificent staircase, she descended to the Ganne Room. She hesitated in front of the nightclub, then decided against it and went into the tearoom instead. She was shown to the best table immediately.
'I'll have a mint tea,' she told the waiter. When he brought it, he carefully poured a cupful from the pot. The spicy aroma of the mint was sweet to her nostrils, and the steam curled lazily out of the thin white china cup. She had no inkling of it yet, but luck was indeed at the casino this night. It had brought her down here to the tearoom, and it was smiling benevolently upon her.
8
'You've been sitting here for over an hour now,' the man said politely.
Hélène set her third cup of tea down in the saucer and looked over at him. Vaguely she had wondered whether he was a gigolo. She had heard that that type of man hung out in the casinos and preyed on lonely women. Then, realizing how foolish this thought was, she saw that he was too refined-looking, too understated. She wondered where she had seen him before. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place him. He was British, probably. Only the English could cut a tuxedo so superbly. And now that he spoke, she realized her guess had been right. His French was excellent, but the accent was unmistakably upper-crust British.
She inclined her head and smiled. 'I'm not terribly keen on gambling, I'm afraid.'
He smiled back at her. 'Neither am I,' he admitted. 'I came in with a group of people and managed to sneak away. What about you?'
She laughed. 'I came here with friends also. They're gambling away upstairs.'
'You are very wise,' he observed.
'So are you,' she replied.
'Would it be terribly forward of me if I joined you?'
Hélène brightened at the prospect of having company. Luba and Jacques were both preoccupied with the games, and they were the only people she knew. Sitting alone for so long was a bore. 'Not at all. I'd be delighted. Please. . .' She gestured to the empty chair opposite her.
Delicately balancing the cup, he lifted his saucer and slipped over into the chair. It was only now that she realized how tall he was, and she could smell the faint scent of his eau de cologne. His hair was brown and thick, carefully combed back, and his features were very fine. But it was his eyes which she found so fascinating. They were brown and warm, speckled with little flecks of gold.
It was then that she realized where she had met him. Years ago, at the Lichtenstein Gallery, after Odile Joly had 'discovered' her. His name was Nigel Somerset and it seemed he was far more handsome than she had remembered him to be.
For the next half-hour they talked and got reacquainted with one another. She knew little about English society, but his manners, like his dress, hinted at a cultured, perhaps titled background. Still, he might be merely upper-middle-class with a good education. The rigid system of structured society was slowly changing, even in England. She learned that he lived in London and in the English countryside and sometimes spent holidays and vacations on the continent. He talked so casually, and without pretense, that she could easily envision his country home. She had seen enough pictures of quaint English cottages with thatched roofs and ancient beams and stucco to be able to do that.
She found out, too, that he worked for a living in the family business, a subject about which he was rather vague. That killed off any notion she had that he was one of the idle rich, but this revelation didn't disappoint her at all. A working person of quality was someone she could understand and identify with. Even appreciate. After all, she was a working woman. It hadn't hurt her any. If anything, she honestly believed it had only made her more interesting.
She couldn't help wondering about his personal life. He made no mention of having a wife or children, so she took it for granted that he was unmarried. When she glanced—discreetly—at his ring finger, she saw that it was bare. The only family he mentioned were his parents. They were both alive, and he would say no more except that he was here in Monte Carlo with friends; he had been invited to cruise on board their yacht.
She found out this much in the first twenty minutes; what he didn't put into words she saw in her mind's eye. Then, adroitly, so that she hardly knew what was happening, he turned the subject around and began asking questions about her. She was frank and talkative. It had been a long time since she had talked seriously with anyone. It felt good to do it now. Nigel Somerset, she had to admit, was a good listener, and good listeners were a rarity. She opened up easily. There was something about him that made her feel comfortable. He ordered another pot of tea, this time a strange blend she had never heard of; but then, he was English, she reminded herself, and the English were great tea drinkers. When he gently probed and asked if she had a husband, she told him that she was Stanislaw Kowalsky's widow. He didn't raise an eyebrow. If he thought it strange that the old pianist had had such a young wife he concealed it behind that implacably expressionless quality that was so much a part of the British. He simply nodded and said that he had met Stanislaw twice when he had performed at Royal Albert Hall. He thought very highly of him, both as a man and as an artist. Then he prodded some more, and she found herself telling him about Les Modes. Although at first she was certain she must be boring him, she realized after a while that he was genuinely interested. Then she became suspicious.
'You're sure you don't work for the competition?' she asked good-naturedly.
He grinned. 'I'm afraid not.'
She took a sip of tea. 'You still haven't told me what you do.'
He started to tell her, but at that moment Jacques appeared in the doorway, and motioned to her. She set down her cup and pushed her chair back. 'Could you excuse me for a moment? It seems that one of my friends is looking for me.'
'Of course.' Nigel got up, gallantly held out her chair, and watched her make her way through the tables toward the door.
Jacques held the door open for her, and she went outside with him. 'What is it?' she asked.
'I think I'm going to leave.' He glanced impatiently down the hall, and her eyes followed his. Etienne, her hairdresser, was standing a discreet distance away. His eyes met hers and he gave a little bow in her direction.
She took Jacques by the arm and pulled him into a corner. 'So you dragged me here and now you want to run off and play!'
'Have a heart, princess.'
'All right, go on,' she said, affecting a weary tone. She was anxious to get back to Nigel. 'But when I got my hair done at Etienne's, I tipped lavishly. Now, don't you go promising him exposure in Les Modes in return for any. . .any favors,' she warned dryly.
He shook his head. 'Really, princess, when you think things like that, you disappoint me.'
'Just make certain you keep business and pleasure separate.'
'I always do.' He sniffed. 'Now, I'd better run off before he gets impatient. You just go back to Nigel Somerset and enjoy yourself.' He started to turn and leave.
'Whoa.' She grabbed his arm. 'Not so fast. How do you know Nigel's name?'
'Everybody knows who Nigel Somerset is.' He looked at her in surprise. 'Don't you?'
'No, but he's a very nice man.'
'He's a very nice rich man,' Jacques corrected her. 'He's the future sixteenth Duke of Farquharshire and heir to the Somerset fortune. I suppose you'll tell me next that you didn't know that his fa
ther, the fifteenth duke, just happens to be the third-richest man in England?'
The Monte Carlo Beach is in French territory. It was there that Jacques had shot the models on the imported white stones. Now Hélène glanced around the darkness as she and Nigel cautiously picked their way down the beach. It was after midnight, and the big pool was deserted, the parasols around it closed. The casino crowd, which sunned here during the day, was still at the gaming tables, and here on the beach in the middle of the night, everything was quiet, even the tiny bungalows where the rich and famous held their private beach parties. Except for one, and it was there that they were headed. About a hundred meters down the beach, the glow of fires and the sounds of a band marked where the Skouri crowd was having a Mediterranean-style luau. Nigel had insisted she accompany him to the party. When they neared it, Hélène saw that it was complete with calypso band, fiery torches stuck in the ground, and a buffet table laden with bowls of caviar stuck in ice and with all the delicacies the Mediterranean could provide. The music was nearly earsplitting, and the flickering torches cast shadows that gave everyone an eerie reddish-bronzed hue. There must have been at least thirty or forty people there, none of whom she knew. But Nigel had been right about one thing. They were all in evening clothes. Some of the men had begun to strip to the waist as they danced to the frenetic beat of the calypso; the women had prudently taken off their delicate evening slippers.
Hélène stopped, quickly slipped out of her sandals, and carried them in her hand.
'Niggle!' a deep voice boomed out above the party sounds.
Startled, Hélène looked around. A short heavyset man with white hair and thick black-rimmed glasses was hurrying toward them. He was wearing baggy trousers and a white shirt open to the waist. He flung his arms around Nigel. Then he glanced at Hélène.
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