She shrugged. She no longer cared what he thought about the way she looked or anything else. Nor was she about to tell him that it was a miracle she didn't look worse after all she'd been through the past week.
'The cruise didn't seem to do you a bit of good,' he continued in a bitchy tone. His eyes narrowed shrewdly. 'By the way, did you happen to see the latest issue of Ici Paris?'
She noticed now that he had a copy beside him. He unfolded it and held it up. Nigel's face stared mockingly at her.
'His Lordship, it seems, is quite smitten with Blanche Benois.' Jacques smiled smugly.
'Get to the point,' she said wearily.
She knew perfectly well why he had arranged this meeting—and why Fouquet's. In Monte Carlo, he had mentioned something about severance pay. That could only mean that he had the von Eiderfeld pictures and was going to blackmail her with them. Her purse with the negatives in it had been snatched right outside here, on the crosswalk not four meters away. At the time, she had suspected he was involved. But as time had passed, and he'd made no move, her suspicions had died down.
A waiter approached. 'A white wine, s'il vous plait,' she said. When he was gone, she turned back to Jacques. The best defense was an offense. 'You have the photos?' she asked brusquely.
He looked at her in surprise, momentarily thrown. There was a drawn-out, uneasy pause. 'So you've known all along.'
She kept her voice flat. 'I've had my suspicions.'
'You're clever,' he said with grudging respect. 'I didn't think you were onto me.'
She remained silent as the waiter brought her wine. She pushed it aside and looked at Jacques. 'How much do you want?'
'Always to the point, aren't you?' he asked dryly.
'I find that it saves time.'
He shook his head and smiled. 'Still watching those precious minutes.'
She didn't reply.
'I'm afraid you won't like my terms,' he said.
'Go ahead, state them.'
'You've got two shareholders in Les Editions Hélène Junot,' he said slowly. 'The first, of course, is Hubert de Léger. For a while I was mystified as to why he should be one. But that's cleared up now. He told me what it is you've got on him.'
'And what's that?'
Jacques smiled knowingly. 'He killed Stanislaw.'
Hélène's face was impassive. 'Go on.'
'He says you had him do it. So you could inherit.'
She couldn't help laughing. 'To think I've always given you more credit than you deserved!'
'You told Inspector What's-his-name that it was an accident.'
She shrugged. 'It was simpler in the long run.'
'All right, I'll take your word for it. But it doesn't add up.'
'There's proof.'
He smiled thinly. 'I'm sure there is. Now, to the second shareholder. A certain German industrialist. Karl von Eiderfeld.'
'What about him?' she asked cautiously.
'Come, come. We both know what you've got on him.'
'You've got the negatives,' she said frankly, 'and my name's on one of the documents. It's all there for you to see.'
He gave a tight little smile. 'Those negatives are worth a lot, princess,' he said slowly. 'They're damaging enough to put a noose around his neck. Yet he's walking around scot-free. Anyone who has information like that would take it to the authorities. Obviously you haven't. Then I asked myself why. And do you know what I concluded?'
She said nothing.
'You're blackmailing him.' He smiled triumphantly. 'Only I still can't figure out one thing. Why? You've got plenty of money. You don't need his.'
She stared at him. It was her business, not his. He had no right to know why. She would never tell him.
He sighed. 'Well, then, don't tell me. But we both know that Les Modes is the darling of the French fashion scene,' he continued. 'And you know what the French think of the Germans. It's as if no time at all has passed since the war ended. As a nation, we still hate them with a passion. Sure, we let German tourists invade our cities and crowd our beaches. We want their money. Why should Spain get it all? But there isn't a Frenchman alive who wants anything to do with a known war criminal. The wounds are still too fresh.' He paused again, choosing his words carefully. 'What if I were to leak the von Eiderfeld documents to. . .oh, let's say Le Monde Internationale? Along with a copy of von Eiderfeld's last year's dividend statement which I lifted from your files and copied some time ago. Do you have any idea of what would happen then?'
She sat stiffly, not moving.
'After the war, the French shaved the heads of women collaborators,' he said softly. 'They don't do that now. But Les Modes would be finished, and so would you. You wouldn't be able to walk down the Champs-Elysees without being spit upon.'
Her eyes narrowed. 'How much do you want? Ten thousand francs?'
'Ten thousand francs!' His laughter echoed crazily. 'That's chicken feed. Each share of Les Editions Hélène Junot is worth two hundred thousand.' He lowered his voice to a whisper. 'I want a percentage of the company, princess.' He looked at her confidently. 'I want, say, twenty percent?'
13
In the months that followed Jeanne's death, Hélène threw herself into her work with an almost superhuman vengeance that surprised even herself. She pushed herself beyond the boundaries of her almost limitless energy until she was exhausted. She realized, of course, why she was forcing this grueling regimen upon herself. It was to cover up the deep pain she felt. Yet despite all her efforts, the thoughts somehow kept on coming. Busy as she kept herself, they always managed to worm their way into her mind: Jeanne had been the best friend and only confidante she had ever enjoyed. She missed her terribly.
There was another hurt Hélène couldn't get over. Nigel. Before they'd met for the second time, she had never even heard about him. Of course, because Zeno Skouri surrounded himself with successful, brilliant people, she had known that Nigel was prominent. But she had never suspected the magnitude of his importance. Now, suddenly, it seemed that he was everywhere. Whatever he did was news. The sensational press linked him to a dozen speculative romances ranging from film stars to a certain young English noblewoman, Lady Amelia Ayers. But it was primarily his career that catapulted him into the limelight.
One morning in November, when the chestnut trees in the Bois were barren of leaves, Leonora brought the latest bundle of magazines into Hélène's office and left them in their usual spot on the sideboard. Hélène glanced over at them but waited until the late afternoon before getting to them.
First she glanced at the covers. Suddenly she sat bolt upright. The third one from the top was the latest issue of Time. The yellow corner banner read: 'Britain's New Breed of Leader.' From within the red border Nigel stared out at her.
She looked at the picture for a long time. The lean, square jaw, the aristocratic forehead, the intense eyes—they were all the way she Remembered him. Especially the eyes, flecked with tiny specks of gold, that had looked at her in the moonlight as he had proposed to her. She sat back and sighed painfully. Proposed . . . and not been heard from since.
She stared at the cover for a long time. She wasn't able to take her eyes off him. She ran her hand over the glossy paper to feel his face. But it was flat. Lifeless. No amount of imagining would bring it to life.
How long had it been now since Jeanne had died, since Hélène had left the Evangelia in the early hours of the morning and left the note at his door? Almost three months now.
She felt an ache stir within her. She knew that the best thing she could do for herself was to throw away the magazine unread. Nigel was part of her past, a part that had disappeared forever. But she couldn't. The way she felt about him was still there. Would probably always be there. She still loved him.
She found herself opening the magazine to a picture of Nigel sitting behind his desk.
For a moment she put down the magazine, then took a black case out of her top drawer and flipped it open. She picked her tortois
eshell magnifying glass out of its nest of baize and studied the photo closely. Nigel's desk was an ancient one, all mahogany and centuries of polish. Behind it, on the gleaming paneled wall, hung an oil portrait of a frowning, distinguished old gentleman with white hair. Was that Nigel's father, the Duke? Or was it his grandfather?
The next photo showed Nigel stepping out of a Bentley in a shipyard in Ireland. Yet another, with his back turned to the camera and his hands clasped behind his back, showed him gazing out a big window. Below him was the Thames, wide and sluggish, and in the distance, the object of his view. The Houses of Parliament.
After studying the pictures, Hélène began to read the article. Clearly Nigel was a part of the political winds of the English future. A powerful part. More than ever now, she was fascinated with this man about whom she knew so little.
She tossed the magazine down on her desk and sat back. Thoughtfully she brought her right hand to her lips and sucked on the knuckle of her forefinger. She began to see Nigel in a new light. He was more than just the charming man who drank tea at the casino and scrambled among the rocks of Corsica with her.
Suddenly she was angry with herself. On impulse she reached for the intercom. She had made up her mind. Perhaps it was up to her to make the next move. After all, it was she who had left the Evangelia as if she were fleeing from a fire. For her, an emergency had arisen. Perhaps the same thing had happened to him. Perhaps he didn't get her note. Perhaps. . .
Her secretary's voice came over the wire.
'Eleonora, place a call to England immediately. To Somerset Holdings, Limited. I believe they're located in London. I want to speak with Nigel Somerset.'
'Right away, mademoiselle.'
The call seemed to take forever.
Irritably Hélène sprang to her feet and started walking around the office. For a moment she stopped at the windows and stared down at her beloved Place Vendome. For once, she couldn't appreciate the elegance of the square. All that appeared before her eyes was Nigel.
'Why didn't you try to contact me?' she whispered to herself, her face drawn in pain. 'You know who I am. Where to find me. I've waited and waited for you.'
The one person she had heard from was Zeno Skouri. She had sent him a thank-you note and an apology for having left so suddenly. He, at least, had taken it for granted that an emergency had arisen and forgiven her sudden departure. True to his word, he had left the yacht at Les Modes's disposal for an entire week so that the article he had promised her could be done. Hélène had been tempted to go along with Luba and the photographer. But she hadn't gone. She had known only too well that the Evangelia would only have served as a painful reminder of Nigel.
Now, suddenly, she turned away from the window and went back to her desk. She pressed down on the intercom button again. 'Eleonora?'
'Oui, mademoiselle?'
'Cancel the call to Somerset Holdings.'
Wearily Hélène lowered herself into her chair. He'd had time enough to get in touch with her. He just hadn't wanted to.
She had never felt this way about any man, ever.
TODAY
Sunday, January 14
1
The Chameleon drove slowly past the rural Connecticut house in his black Hertz car. On the backseat, the huge Great Dane named Rufus sat quietly alert, his ears cocked, his shiny black eyes staring benignly out the window.
The Chameleon studied the house. It was set far back from the road in a yard of bare old maples. It had been built in the first half of the nineteenth century, was sided with gray clapboard, and stood two stories high. From the front it looked L-shaped, with a gable facing the road. The open shutters were painted black, and smoke was rising from one of the chimneys. The silvery mailbox by the driveway was neatly stenciled 'E. Junot.'
Satisfied, the Chameleon turned the car around and drove back in the direction from which he had come. After he'd driven a quarter of a mile, he backed into a dirt road and parked behind a screen of evergreen bushes. He looked at the quartz chronometer on his wrist. It was three-forty-five. There was time for a quick reconnaissance of the Junot property before dark. The voice on the telephone had informed him that Hélène Junot would probably be spending the weekend at her brother's. He wondered if the information was correct. Well, now he would find out.
The Chameleon left Rufus in the car and pulled the collar of his unobtrusive brown, wool jacket high around his neck. Then he got out of the car and made his way back to the house on foot. He had no desire to be seen, so he stayed well in the woods, walking soundlessly on crepe-soled shoes. It was quiet out here in the country. A little noise could travel a long way. Not like in the city, where sounds were blanketed by an ever-present cacophony.
When he reached the house, smoke was still trailing from the chimney and already the lights were turned on. For a while he stood still and listened intently. He could hear no sound of anyone outside. They must be in the house, he thought. So far, so good. He just wished it weren't winter. Winter in the country was a special bitch. It was too easy to be seen when most of the trees were bare. At least it would be a lot safer once night fell. He was an expert at working in the dark.
But night had not yet fallen, so he would have to take special care while finding out everything he needed to know.
Behind the house was the big clapboard garage. It had two windows along each side. Cautiously he approached one of them and peered in. He could see an orange BMW coupe and a black Lincoln Continental. No white Rolls-Royce, though. Still, that didn't prove anything. She could have been driven out here in the Rolls and then had the chauffeur take it back to the city. Or maybe her brother had driven her out here in one of his cars. Or she might even have come by Conrail or bus. Even wealthy people commuted between New York and Connecticut on public transportation.
He shrugged. There was no end of possibilities. He continued his stealthy reconnaissance.
To the left of the garage was the rectangular swimming pool, covered over with heavy-duty canvas. A flagstone path ran along the side of the pool, connecting the house with a big barn set thirty yards farther back. The barn was covered with weathered cedar siding. It had big picture windows, and the lights were on inside.
He approached it stealthily and looked in through one of the Thermo- pane windows. He suppressed a whistle. This was no ordinary barn. It had been converted into a swanky guesthouse. He could see teak-paneled walls, a beamed ceiling, plush carpeting, and expensive furniture. The hand of an interior designer was evident, as was the fact that this was a woman's domain. He saw a handbag on the coffee table. He guessed that the voice over the telephone had been right after all. Hélène Junot must indeed be here. She was probably using the guesthouse instead of staying in the big house. Unless, of course, the handbag belonged to another woman altogether. Well, he'd just have to be careful and wait and see.
He made his way back to the car by the same route he'd come. Then he let Rufus out to sniff around and do his business. He lit a cigarette and watched the big, obedient dog lift his leg against a rhododendron. Rufus didn't stray; he stayed close by, always watching for instructions.
The Chameleon smiled. Soon now, it would be dark. In a half-hour he would return to the house.
This time with Rufus.
Hélène smiled at Edmond. He was standing over the big Jenn-Air range, apron tied around his waist. She watched as he expertly forked the two steaks onto the grill. Immediately they started to sizzle. Then he put the fork down, picked up the tongs, and opened the oven door. He took out two giant baked potatoes.
'It smells good,' Hélène said in French, bending down to shut the oven door.
He turned around and grinned. 'Wait until dessert. I spent all morning on it.'
'What is it? Boule de neige? Profiteroles?'
'You'll have to wait to find out,' he said mysteriously. 'Where do you want to eat? Dining room, den, or here in the kitchen?'
'How about right here? I still can't seem to get kitchens out of m
y blood. Remember when we were kids? We always seemed to live in kitchens. Looking back, I've grown rather fond of them. They always smelled so good.'
He grinned at her. 'You've still got the peasant in you, you know that, Little French Girl?'
She laughed. 'Please, keep it a secret. You wouldn't want the world to know that the queen of high fashion is nothing but a homespun kitchen slut, would you?'
He chuckled. 'Cross my heart, I won't ever tell.' He picked up the fork again and expertly flipped the steaks over. 'What do you want to drink? Champagne or red wine?'
The Chameleon glanced at his watch. The half-hour had passed. He got out of the car and held the rear door open. 'Come on, Rufus,' he said quietly. The dog's ears instantly cocked. Then he got to his feet and leaped neatly to the ground. He stopped and gazed questioningly up at the Chameleon, the slack pink skin of his jaw making him look deceptively benign.
The Chameleon smiled crookedly. 'Come on, dog. It's time you earned your supper.'
'That was good,' Hélène said.
She took a last sip of wine, delicately patted her lips with the pink linen napkin, and got to her feet. She started clearing away the dishes, slipping them into the slots in the dishwasher.
Edmond pushed his chair back. 'I suppose I'm becoming very Americanized. Steak and potatoes are my favorite foods now.'
She looked over her shoulder. 'Mine, too.'
'But you didn't finish your potato.'
She laughed and touched her flat stomach. 'I don't want to get fat,' she replied. 'If I do, you'll have to call me Big French Girl.'
He chuckled and shook his head. 'And you didn't even touch your apple pie,' he said admonishingly.
She made a face. 'Really, Edmond. Building up a dessert that took you all morning to fix! So you went into Roxbury and bought a Sara Lee to heat up in the oven.' She placed her hands on her hips in mock anger. 'I suppose the trip into town took you all morning?'
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