'I knew it, Niggle!' he cried excitedly. 'Sooner or later, the charms of a beautiful young woman were bound to affect you!'
Hélène glanced at Nigel. He was smiling. 'You think she's beautiful, Zeno?' he asked.
Zeno studied Hélène closely. Then he laughed. 'I would say she's very beautiful!' Suddenly he stepped forward, embraced Hélène tightly, kissed her once on each cheek, and stepped back. 'I'm Zeno Skouri,' he said, not waiting for an introduction.
'I'm Hélène Junot.'
'Enchante,' he said, making a production of kissing her hand as well. Then he hooked one arm through hers, the other through Nigel's. They started to walk. 'Come, let us drink some champagne. We have fifty magnums on hand. It would be a pity to let it go to waste.' He looked at Hélène. 'You like Dom Perignon?'
She smiled. 'Yes, but only a little. I'm afraid I have to be fit for travel tomorrow. I'm returning to Paris in the morning.'
Skouri frowned. 'A beautiful woman like you must return to the city? I thought all beautiful people left Paris for the summer.'
She laughed. 'I'm afraid I'm a working girl.'
He looked at her shrewdly. 'A model or an actress?'
'Neither. She owns a fashion magazine,' Nigel explained. 'Perhaps you've heard of it. It's called Les Modes.'
Skouri beamed. 'I've seen it,' he said enthusiastically. 'Ariadne swears it's the only decent one on the market.'
Hélène looked pleased. Ariadne Cosindas was the world's most magnificent ballerina. She had also been Skouri's longtime mistress. Still, it was strange to hear the revered La Cosindas referred to as simply 'Ariadne.'
'Since you're self-employed and presumably have a capable staff, I insist that you join us for the next two weeks,' Skouri stated flatly.
Hélène stared at him. 'I. . .I don't think I understand,' she stammered.
'The cruise. We started in Barcelona and are going to work our way around the boot of Italy and up to Venice.' Skouri stopped walking and looked at Hélène. 'What do you say? You'll honor us with your company?'
For a moment, Hélène looked confused. She had never before received such a spur-of-the-moment invitation. Nor had she ever had a real vacation. The chances of being invited on the legendary Skouri yacht some other time were slim. It would be nice to go, she thought. Besides, any excuse to wheedle out of it would sound skimpy. Zeno Skouri was right. Why else did she have a staff if they couldn't get work done in her absence? She could always put the Czarina in charge. Quickly she made up her mind. She leaned forward and glanced sideways at Nigel. He was smiling enthusiastically.
'Do you want me to go?' she asked softly.
He nodded wordlessly.
Skouri caught the nod. 'See?' he boomed exuberantly. 'Niggle says you must go, so you must go. It is set, then. The day after tomorrow, we sail on. I'll send a car to pick you up. Where are you staying?'
'The Hotel de Paris.'
'It's my favorite place in the world,' Skouri said proudly. 'That's the only reason I bought into the SBM. Because I liked the Salle Empire so much.' He shot her a challenging look. 'You like it?'
Hélène nodded. 'It's a masterpiece of Belle Époque,' she said seriously, thinking of the big room and the opulent mural of the busty women. 'I have a weakness for the period.'
'Then we'll hit it off well. The salon of the Evangelia is all original Belle Époque.' They had reached the bar. 'Now, for the champagne. And don't worry, if you get a hangover, you have all day tomorrow to recover.'
Nigel patted Skouri's broad back and cleared his throat. Skouri turned around, then heaved his shoulders and sighed. 'Just my luck,' he said with mock resignation. 'The most beautiful woman here, and spoken for.' He assumed a morose expression and made his way toward a tall, smoothly exotic woman in a silver sarong.
Nigel and Hélène watched Skouri's instant jovial smile as he put a hand in the small of the woman's back, propelling her toward the beach.
Nigel grinned, hooked his arm through Hélène's. 'Dance?' he asked.
She smiled at him, her face radiant and flickering in the torchlight. 'Dance,' she said huskily.
Till dawn lit the beach, Hélène danced and drank with Nigel, both of them losing their reserve, until dance after dance and drink after drink melted into countless others. She didn't mind at all that he wanted to keep her all to himself rather than share her with the rest of the party. And when he took her back to the hotel, the sun was already streaking the pale sky in a fan shape, and she realized only then that she had been introduced to no one but Zeno Skouri.
Nigel, she thought with a peculiar stirring, was enough. More than enough.
The next day Hélène awoke to find the bedroom dim, but afternoon sunlight shone in the bright chinks between the curtains. She looked up at Jacques, who was sitting on the edge of her bed. 'I had a great time!' he said happily. 'That Etienne's really something, you know that? He's not like all those fairies in Paris. He's a real man. And what he can do with his tongue!'
Hélène tried to lift her head up off the pillow. 'Please,' she said weakly. 'Spare me the gruesome details.' Gingerly she touched her forehead with the back of her hand and let her head drop back down on the pillow. She tried to swallow. Her mouth tasted stale and sour.
Jacques watched her with an expression of amusement. 'What's the matter, princess? Got a hangover?'
'Please,' she begged, 'lower your voice. It's pounding in my temples.'
He shook his head. 'Poor princess.' He got up, and she could feel the mattress shifting under her. He crossed over to the telephone table and picked up the receiver. He had his back to her and she could hear snatches of his conversation. 'Room service. . .a tomato juice with ice, Tabasco sauce, and salt. . .and a jigger of vodka.' He turned around and glanced over at Hélène.
She made a face. 'Now I know I'm going to be sick.'
He hung up the phone and grinned. 'All I sent for was the American cure for a hangover.' He clapped his hands and she winced. 'Come on, princess, there's a lot we have to do today! We're leaving in three hours, remember?'
'Leaving?' Her voice was tiny. She shook her head slowly. 'I can't go anywhere.'
'Sure you can. It won't be long till you'll feel fit as a fiddle.' He crossed the room and went from window to window, swiftly yanking aside the curtains. Sunlight poured in.
Hélène let out a gasp and covered her face with a pillow. Her voice was muffled. 'Close those damn things!'
'We've got to get up, princess,' he said in a hearty voice. 'The trains won't wait for us. The Czarina's already packed and brunching downstairs.'
She peered out from under the pillow. 'What time is it, anyway?'
He pulled back his cuff to glance at his Baume and Mercier. 'Five past three,' he said mildly.
'Three o'clock!' she moaned. Small wonder that she was feeling so lousy. She'd come in at five-thirty, high as a kite and giggling hysterically. The last thing she remembered was Nigel bringing her up here, putting her to bed, and kissing her gently on the forehead. Could there have been more? Perhaps he. . .No, she'd have remembered if they had done anything. And how could she think such horrible thoughts, anyway? Nigel was a gentleman. Through and through. He wouldn't take advantage of a lady in distress.
Suddenly she sat bolt upright. Then she cursed herself for the sudden move as flashes of pain shot through her skull. She placed her thumb and index finger firmly on her forehead. The cruise! Good God, she'd have to let the chief concierge know that she'd be staying an extra day. And she'd have to get Luba in here and give her instructions on running the office in her absence. Or. . .An ugly thought managed to worm its way into her mind. Had the invitation for the cruise been a hallucination? No, she hadn't even started drinking when Zeno Skouri had invited her. She let her head drop to the pillow again.
'Jacques. . .'
'Yes, princess?' He came toward the bed and looked down at her.
'Call the chief concierge. Tell him I'm staying another day. Then get Luba up here.'
'You're staying?'
'Just do as I say,' she said wearily, closing her eyes.
'Sure, princess.' He gave her a curious look and went back to the telephone table. A moment later he had the chief concierge on the wire. When he finished the call, he looked across at her, an incredulous expression on his face. 'The chief concierge already knew,' he said in a disbelieving voice. 'You move in mighty exalted circles, princess. It seems that Zeno Skouri himself called up to extend your reservation.'
Hélène opened her eyes and stared at him.
'Not only that, but I'm supposed to tell you that you're to consider yourself a guest of the Hotel de Paris.'
Hélène let out a sigh of relief. So the invitation hadn't been a dream. She could feel some of her energy returning. 'Good,' she said. 'Now get the Czarina up here.'
'Will do. But you still haven't told me why you're staying.'
She kept her face carefully expressionless. 'I've decided to take a two-week vacation, that's all. Boss's prerogative.'
'Good for you! Where are you going?'
'On the Skouri yacht.'
'The Skouri yacht!' He let out a low whistle. 'Good Lord, a few days here, and you set Monte Carlo on fire!' He looked thoughtful. 'Princess?' he said hesitantly.
'Hmmmm?'
'You wouldn't mind terribly if I stayed on here for one more day also, would you?'
'What about the pictures?' she pointed out. 'They've got to be developed.'
'That can wait a day. I'll get to them the instant I get back, cross my heart. Besides, we're a month ahead of schedule.'
Before she could answer, there was a discreet knock on the door.
'Come in!' Jacques called out, hurrying across the room.
It was room service with the tomato-juice concoction and a perfect red rose in a bud vase. Jacques took the tray and brought it over to the bedside and held it out to her.
She grimaced.
'It works, princess. Just be a good girl and drink up.'
'A votre sante,' she mumbled, slowly bringing the glass up to her lips. She looked at him over the rim as she took a tentative sip.
When Luba came into the room, Hélène looked over at her from the settee. She put down the buttered croissant she had been nibbling. Luba was carrying the new Paris Vogue under her arm. The life-sized cover girl was glaring out at her with a spiteful expression.
'I hope I haven't inconvenienced you,' Hélène said apologetically.
'Not at all,' Luba said quietly. 'In fact, I was going to come and see you.'
Hélène nodded. 'I just wanted to let you know that I'm not returning to Paris with you. I've decided to take a two-week vacation. You'll be in charge in my absence.'
Luba nodded. 'Before you turn the responsibilities over to me, there's something you might first like to take care of yourself,' she said with gravity.
'Oh?' Hélène raised her eyebrows. 'And what's that?'
'Before lunch, I noticed that the new Vogue was already out,' Luba explained. Despite the fact that they were alone, she lowered her voice confidentially. 'So I bought a copy.' She glanced down at it. 'Only to keep tabs on what the competition's doing, you understand,' she added unnecessarily.
Hélène smiled, but her eyes looked at Luba with concern. The Czarina wasn't her usual dramatic self. Something serious was up. She nodded to a chair. 'Won't you have a seat, Luba?' she said gently.
Stiffly Luba pulled the chair closer and sat down. She handed over the Vogue. 'Pages eighty-four through eighty-nine.'
Hélène glanced at her, but Luba's dark eyes were carefully veiled. Then wordlessly she opened the magazine and flipped to page eighty-four. Suddenly a horrified look crossed her face. Quickly she thumbed through the following pages. Still clutching the Vogue, she sprang to her feet, regretting it the instant her headache started again. She began pacing the room, her lips set in a grim line. Against her specific orders, Jacques had been moonlighting. Taking pictures for the competition while he was Les Modes's staff photographer. That in itself might have deserved a severe dressing-down. But he had gone further than that. A blatant credit was printed alongside each picture. It was a direct stab in the back.
After a while she stopped pacing and turned to Luba. 'Thank you for showing this to me,' she said.
The Czarina got to her feet. 'I wasn't trying to get anyone into trouble,' she said uncomfortably.
Hélène forced a smile 'Of course not. I realize that, in many ways, Les Modes is even more important to you than to me. Don't worry, I won't tell Jacques that you brought this to my attention.'
Luba smiled gratefully and started to leave the room.
'You don't mind if I keep this for a little while?' Hélène asked, holding up the Vogue.
Luba shook her head and went quietly out.
Quickly Hélène changed from her peignoir into a dress, ran a comb through her hair, and went in search of Jacques. He wasn't in his room. Finally she found him out on the terrace, eating under a tilted parasol. He looked up as her shadow fell across him.
He grinned. 'So you're already up, princess. I told you that vodka and tomato juice work wonders. Here. . .' He leaned sideways and pulled out a chair for her. 'Have a seat and we'll order you an early dinner.'
She remained standing, a dark expression on her face. 'No, thank you,' she said quietly. She plopped the Vogue down on the table. 'Your contract specifically reads that you may not publish pictures in any magazine but Les Modes.'
He shrugged and looked away. 'So the shit has hit the fan,' he mumbled. 'Surely you're not serious about binding me to that contract?'
'I not only stipulated it orally, but in writing as well. Is that binding enough for you?'
'Come on, princess—'
'Don't you 'princess' me!' she said sharply. 'As of this moment, you're fired! I expect your resignation in writing immediately.'
He looked dumbfounded. Then he burst out laughing. 'Fired? This is Jacques, your loyal employee, Remember? I helped you put that magazine together from scratch.'
'I repeat, you're fired. I'm being kind enough to let you resign,' she said quietly. 'I suggest you give Luba all the film you've shot here.'
He looked at her tauntingly. 'And if I don't?'
'I'll sue, and then you're finished. Word spreads. You'll be tagged as 'unreliable.' Not one fashion publisher in the Western world will as much as look at one of your snapshots.'
He picked up his napkin from his lap and tossed it on his plate. He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. 'Fine. Then I won't show my face in the office until you're back. But I want us to have a talk.'
She tensed. 'What's there to talk about?' she asked curtly.
'My severance pay.' He patted her cheek. 'But that can wait. I wouldn't want to spoil your vacation, princess.'
She started to reply, but he was already on his way back into the hotel, leaving her seething on the terrace. Angrily she turned away from the table. She had both liked and trusted him but he had broken the bond between them. For a moment she considered calling Skouri and canceling the cruise. Then she decided against it. The copy and pictures for Les Modes were ahead of schedule. Luba would find someone to develop the shots. In the meantime, they would use a freelance photographer. Maybe Cecil Beaton, William Klein, or Hiro was available. Why should she suffer because of Jacques?
9
It was midmorning and the sun was already high and white and baking, but the breezes swept in from the sea as they always did to rustle the palm fronds and cool the air. Inside the breakwater, the white yachts did a little bob in the wake of a speedboat heading out between the twin stone towers that guarded the entrance to the port.
Jacques was standing in the shade on the rue des Remparts. A pair of Zeiss binoculars hung from around his neck and there was a magnificent view of the harbor from up here on the bluff. But he hadn't come to enjoy the view. He was waiting for someone.
Meanwhile, he thought back to last night. He had seen Etienne twice now. All night
, they had drunk a lot and smoked some opium which Etienne had gotten hold of. As a result, Jacques hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep. There was plenty of time for that later, he told himself. Besides, now that he had been fired, and Hélène wouldn't be back in Paris for two weeks, he really had nothing to do. He might even stay longer here. At least until the good things wore off.
Someone was approaching. Jacques turned around, his eyes fixed steadily on Hubert de Léger. Suddenly he had to smile. Hubert was headed toward him on foot, his face florid and his chest heaving from the exertion of the climb. In Monaco, no matter where you walked, it was either up- or downhill. Twice Hubert had to stop to wipe the perspiration off his face with a rumpled handkerchief. Jacques waited until he was near. 'You're late,' he said.
'What's so important?' Hubert asked in a surly voice. 'What did you have me fly down here for at such short notice?'
'It would be well for you to learn some patience.' Jacques dug his hands into his trouser pockets and nodded down to the harbor. 'Nice view, don't you agree?'
Hubert was silent.
'Recognize any of the yachts?'
Hubert looked at him. His voice was belligerent. 'Should I?'
'Take a look at the prime berth.' Jacques took his hands out of his pockets, unlooped the binoculars from around his neck, and held them out to Hubert.
For a moment Hubert hesitated. Then he took them and squinted through the lenses. The prime berth was just inside the breakwater on this side of the port. A four-decked yacht was moored there, Mediterranean fashion, stern to the quay. He studied it for a moment. There was no doubt but that it was the biggest yacht in the harbor, long and sleek, the blinding white throwing off a dazzling glare. It was the size of a small ocean liner, three hundred and thirty feet long. The bow was rakish and sloped gracefully downward to the stern, which was gentle and rounded. The funnel was painted navy blue, and so were the two amphibious Piaggio airplanes behind the on-deck crane. Also navy blue were the canvas covers on the speedboats and the big awning stretched over the aft deck.
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