Episode on the Riviera

by Mack Reynolds

  He stopped for a moment to converse with her. Already he could feel stirring within him the prerogatives of manhood. Confound it, he was going to have to watch himself with clients. He couldn’t afford to do his compulsive catting around with Far Away Holidays customers. In the long run that would prove to be job suicide.

  He said, “How do you find the Pavilion Budapest?”

  “Wonderful,” she told him, sinking to the sand and looking up. “I met the contessa at breakfast. Is she really a countess?”

  “That she is,” Steve said. “In fact, she carries some sort of Hungarian title, too. She became a refugee when the Soviets overran Hungary in 1944 and met the count, Giuseppe Rossi, in Switzerland. From what they say, the count was quite an old boy but he’s been dead now for seven or eight years.”

  “She seems very clever.”

  “That she is,” Steve said again. “Look, Miss Whiteley, I’ll have to get along. Were you interested in taking any of the special tours? I have to make up my lists.”

  “I think I’d like to make that trip down to Nîmes for the bullfight, but none of the others. When it comes to night-clubbing and sight-seeing, I’d rather be on my own.” For what she had in mind, Nadine had decided, that sounded like much the better plan.

  The Nîmes trip it is,” Steve said. “Anything else I can do to make your holiday a success?”

  She frowned thoughtfully, the slight wrinkles giving her a charming expression which Steve knew couldn’t be artful. She had a piquant face, expressive and openly honest. He couldn’t take his eyes from the manner in which her lips tucked in at the corners.

  “How difficult is it to rent a car?” she queried.

  “Not at all. A little expensive though.”

  “Oh, that’s not important.”

  “Well, there’s a place in Monaco — the Sporting Garage on Boulevard de France where you might rent a Simca. I’ll take you in if you want.”

  “Wonderful, but I haven’t had my dip yet and you’re all ready to go.”

  “I haven’t had breakfast,” Steve said. “If you’re ready by the time I am, it’s a deal. Otherwise I’m afraid I’ll have to push along. This is my busiest morning.”

  She dashed for the water, saying over her shoulder, “Expect me!”

  By the time Steve was ready to go, Nadine was sitting in the front seat of the Citroën, much to his approval. He wasn’t particularly fond of tourists who made him toady to their lack of punctuality, not when you considered that he had almost seventy of them on hand at any given time.

  Their conversation was animated on the short trip into Monte Carlo. When she mentioned that she came from the Catskills, he told her of the job he’d once held in Kingston. It turned out that they had mutual friends in the nearby art colony of Woodstock.

  She was somewhat taken aback by the fact that he had once held down a job as an efficiency engineer with a major firm but was now simply a tourist representative on the Riviera.

  He grinned at her ruefully. “Miss Whiteley — ”

  “Nadine.”

  “Nadine,” he said, “you must never ask an expatriate why he has become a modernized version of a beachcomber on the Côte d’Azur. It’s something like the Foreign Legion. It’s bad manners to ask about a person’s past.”

  They laughed together and swept into Monaco at a pleasant clip. Traffic this early in the morning was light and speed possible. Steve gave her a brief rundown on the sights in the tiny country. He pointed out The Rock, upon which was Monaco-Ville, the oldest part of the town, and the palace of the former Grace Kelly and her prince.

  Beyond lay La Condamine, which faced the port so filled with yachts from all over the world. Riding at anchor was Aristotle Onassis’ converted destroyer escort, one of the most elaborate pleasure ships afloat. Beyond the yacht basin was Monte Carlo, most famed of all Riviera resort towns.

  The Boulevard de France, Nadine’s destination, was but a few blocks beyond the Far Away Holidays office and Steve drove her down to the Place de La Cremaillère, onto the boulevard and to the office of the Sporting Garage.

  “They speak English here,” he said. “Ask for Pierre Jacquin. He’ll take care of you. See you later, Nadine.”

  She waved her thanks and good-by and he was off.

  At the office, Elaine Marimbert was looking a bit on the harried side as she murmured, “yes, yes, indeed, sir, oh, yes, I’ll take care of it immediately,” into the phone. When she saw Steve she cast her eyes upward in mock despair but continued her soothing efforts into the mouthpiece.

  When she’d hung up, Steve said, while going rapidly through the mail on his desk. “What’s the crisis?”

  “One of the tourists at the Hôtel de Paris complaining about his room.”

  Steve grunted his disgust. “It’s the best hotel in Monaco.”

  “He says he was promised a different view when he made his reservations in London.”

  “Well, give René a ring and see what he can do. I know the type. Next he’ll complain about the food and probably the wine. There’s at least one in every planeload.”

  Elaine said cautiously, “Mr. Lindos called and left a message.”

  “Nick Lindos, Conny’s secretary? What did he want?”

  Elaine cleared her throat unhappily. “He said Mr. Kamiros had given you one week. Then he’ll have to foreclose.”

  Steve winced.

  He looked at his watch. There was nothing he could do about Conny now. He had to see his clients. If you didn’t catch them at mealtime, at their hotels, you didn’t catch them period. They scattered around to the beaches, to the cafés, to the shops — and to each other’s beds — to the point where it was absolutely impossible to round them up. And this was the day he sold them the special tours.

  “Well, take over, Elaine,” he told her. I’m off to Menton. I’ll cover the hotel there as quickly as possible and perhaps return here in time for the Hôtel de Paris. I’ve already seen the clients at the Pavilion Budapest.”

  “How is it going so far?” Elaine said, picking up the ringing phone.

  “Average. Looks like we’ll have quite a few for the Nîmes bullfight. Probably have to rent a bus. Is that anything important?”

  She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Somebody with a British accent asking for you. He sounds indignant about something.”

  “Tell him I just left,” Steve flung over his shoulder as he hustled out the door.

  • • •

  Menton was no more than six kilometers — about three and a half miles — to the east. Flush on the Italian border, it was the last town on the French Riviera and one of the most attractive. Steve had fourteen of the Far Away Holidays tourists quartered here this planeload.

  Twelve of them showed up for breakfast while he was there and he was able to check on their satisfaction with their accommodations and to get them lined up for the various side trips and night club tours which he offered.

  This was the main source of Steve Cogswell’s income. Far Away Holidays paid him only a nominal salary to be their Riviera representative. The side tours were his own enterprise and to the extent that he was able to sell them he compiled enough money to allow him to live comfortably through the season and then to take off for almost six months during the winter.

  He had tours to Italy, tours to Grasse, the world perfume center, tours to the mountains, trips to the various islands off the coast, fishing trips and skin-diving outings. This particular week he had the bullfight at Nîmes, which was to take place in the well-preserved ruins of what had once been a Roman arena.

  By the time he had finished in Menton, it was getting on into the day and he hurried back to Monte Carlo to contact as many as possible of the twenty-odd clients who were staying there. Some he was able to locate before lunch, which speeded things up.

  Time was running out on him by the time he was finished. He hopped into the Citroën and headed for Nice, taking the fast Middle Corniche road, which was much quicker than the ol
der route that bordered the sea. As usual, in passing through the town of Eze, he was taken aback, all over again, with the view from this eagle’s nest of a town perched more than thirteen hundred feet above the sea.

  In Nice, most of his clients were either still at their leisurely lunches or were sitting on the Ruhl terrace finishing things off with coffee and a brandy. Steve took just long enough to have a quick brandy himself, exchange a couple of fond words with Joseph, possibly the most popular bartender on the Riviera, and then went into his sales pitch again.

  It was late afternoon before he pulled up before the office of Far Away Holidays in Monaco.

  Elaine was getting her things together, preparatory to calling it a day. She gave him the messages which had accumulated since he’d left that morning, took a few notes, and then looked at him pertly. “Well, this is the day you make your donation to the Casino, isn’t it? Should I get you the usual one hundred new francs from the cashbox?”

  Steve Cogswell grinned sourly. Roulette was his weakness. He was self-disciplined enough, however, to realize he just wasn’t in the category where he could throw money around. Consequently, he allowed himself to play every Saturday evening, when the stiffest part of his work week had ended.

  He allowed himself a hundred new francs — roughly twenty dollars. If he lost that, it meant he didn’t gamble again until next Saturday. If he won, and that was seldom enough, he allowed himself to play again, whenever he had free time during the week, until he had lost all his gains. Of course, he didn’t always lose. In fact, he’d hit it good one time nearly two years ago and had wound up the evening with almost ten thousand francs. Happily, on that occasion he’d had the good sense to invest it the next day in the Citroën station wagon he now drove. It was just as well he did. His luck changed again that very night.

  Elaine was opening the cashbox.

  Steve said suddenly, “How much is in there?”

  She looked up at him, “About a thousand new francs, Monsieur Cogswell.”

  “A couple of hundred dollars. Let me have it all.”

  She shrugged in typical Gallic fashion, but said nothing. He was the boss. It was his money. Luckily, Elaine Marimbert reflected, citizens of Monaco were not allowed to enter the Casino. That was one foolish dissipation that Prince Rainier didn’t allow his people.

  • • •

  Somebody waved to him from another automobile as he was parking in the Place du Casino. He frowned at first, not recognizing the vehicle, but then he realized it was Nadine Whiteley. She pulled up next to him and called, “How do you like the car?”

  It was a practically new Simca convertible, and she seemed pleased with it. “I feel unpatriotic,” Nadine said. “I’ve never driven anything smaller than my Pontiac before.”

  Steve leaned on the car door, on her side, and said, “Well, you don’t have to be. This car is the product of an American manufacturer with a plant in France, so somebody in Detroit is making a profit. What’re you doing?”

  “Just driving about and enjoying the sights.”

  “Good. Come on into the Casino and bring me luck.”

  She looked up at the heavy, ornate building. “Is this the famous Monte Carlo Casino? I though it was a government building.”

  “Looks more like it at that, doesn’t it?” he said, opening the door for her. “Actually, it’s the oldest casino on the Riviera, first started back in 1856. By now it’s on the ancient side, compared to the ones in Cannes and Nice, but it’s become an institution.”

  He led her up the stone steps and into the elaborate, Victorian period lobby where he bought their admission, saying something jokingly over his shoulder about the incongruity of having to pay for the privilege of losing your money.

  He changed his thousand francs into fifty-franc chips and led the way into the gaming room. “Don’t forget,” he told her. “Keep your fingers crossed for me. I’ve got to win five thousand dollars tonight.”

  She said, taking up his light mood, “I’d root for you, but I don’t know anything about roulette except that the little ball goes round and round and finally sinks into one of those holes. Then the croupier rakes in everybody’s money. This knowledgeability I gained from Hollywood movies.”

  “Mmmmm,” Steve said glumly. “Well, that about sums it up.”

  They took their places at one of the wheels and he explained roulette. “That wheel has eighteen red holes, eighteen black, and one white, into which the ball can drop. On this green table, here, you place your bets. If you put your money on any single number and it comes up, you win thirty-five to one. If you place it on either red or black, odd or even, or above eighteen or below eighteen, it’s called a chance simple and you win one for one. There’s various others ways you can bet, such as a cheval — putting a chip between two numbers, then if either of them comes up you win seventeen to one.”

  “Very good,” Nadine nodded. “There’s just one more thing I’d like to know. How do you break the bank?”

  Steve pretended to wince. “That I’ve never found out,” he admitted.

  “You mean you have no system?” she said chidingly.

  “Oh, I’ve got a system all right. I’ve got several of them.” He placed a bet on red. “This is called the escargot system.”

  “That means snail, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s right. And that’s because it goes so slow. However, it’s comparatively safe. You bet one chip and continue betting one as long as you win. As soon as you lose, you write the number 1 on a piece of paper, like this, then stake two and continue as long as you lose. The moment you win again, you cross off your first number on the paper and you play three chips until you win again.”

  She was frowning in concentration at his explanation.

  Steve said, “The advantage of this system is that even if you lose five bets and win five you’ll still be five chips ahead. It’s based on progression. Your luck has to be pretty bad to lose much.”

  Steve didn’t lose. He won.

  After about a half-hour of play, he looked into her face and chuckled. “By golly, I think you are bringing me luck. I’m going to switch to the Tiers de Tout.”

  She’d had one set of fingers crossed and openly displayed for him thus far. Now she grinned back and crossed a pair on her other hand. “Let’s go,” she said. “What’s the Tiers de Tout?”

  Steve had divided his pile of chips into three equal stacks. Now he placed one of them on a chance simple.

  “I’ll show you how it works,” he said. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. “It means the third of everything and you win fast — if you win. You play one third of your chips on a single bet. If you lose, you follow up with the two remaining thirds.”

  She blinked. “Then if you lose twice in a row, you’re broke.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “If you win either bet, you divide your money again into three stacks and bet one of them. If your luck is with you — and here you are standing right next to me — you pile it up quickly.”

  The croupier grinned at Steve and said, “Bonne chance, Monsieur Cogswell!” Then to the rest of the players, “Faites vos jeux. Rien ne va plus.”

  Nadine frowned skeptically. “Why should he wish you good luck? Whose side is he on?”

  Steve was concentrating on the spinning ivory ball as it hopped from one slot to another. He said, “Henri works for a salary. If I have good luck, I’ll tip him. Obviously, he hopes I’ll have good luck.” Steve won and sighed satisfaction.

  An hour later, his shirt was soaked with perspiration. Steve looked at her, the side of his mouth twitching slightly. “Look,” he said, “let’s go into the Salle Privée.”

  She raised her eyebrows and he explained. “That’s the inner room where the stakes are higher. You have to pay another admission — keeps the riffraff out. Usually, that means me, but tonight I’m out for blood.”

  He stuffed his chips into his pockets and they went down the long length of the public rooms t
o an ornate guarded door which led to smaller, more luxurious rooms beyond. Before resuming his play, he took her into the small bar that led off to the right. There were but six stools, and for a moment Steve hesitated when he saw one of them was occupied.

  Then he said, “Hello, Conny,” to the other. He was a dark-complected, heavy-set man. Now his thick eyebrows went up.

  “Hello, Steve,” he said. “How is your luck running?”

  “Fine,” Steve said evenly. “Nadine, may I introduce Mr. Constantine Kamiros? Conny is possibly my oldest friend here on the Riviera. Miss Whiteley.”

  The Greek tycoon got down from his stool and bent over her hand formally. “I must try and take you away from Mr. Cogswell,” he said softly. “It is a game we play against each other.”

  Steve attempted a chuckle. “Not tonight, please, Conny. Miss Whiteley is my luck and I need her badly. I’ve decided to win five thousand dollars this evening.”

  “Indeed,” the other said, his shaggy eyebrows high again. “You have picked a difficult method of acquiring such a round sum of money, Steve.”

  Steve shrugged. “Can’t be as difficult as all that. Isn’t gambling the manner in which you got started, Conny? And now you reputedly own half the Riviera.”

  The heavy-set Greek grunted deprecation. “I learned early, Steve, that to win at roulette you must stand on the opposite side of the table.”

  “Touché,” Nadine laughed. “Heavens, are those One-Armed Bandits, over there? Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Kamiros said, smiling thickly, “Miss Whiteley, your choice of game chills an old gambler’s heart. There is no gambling action ever devised by man that gives the player so poor a percentage.”

  But she had gone to the long rows of slot machines that lined one wall of the bar.

  The Greek turned back to Steve Cogswell. “Well, Steve?”