Episode on the Riviera

by Mack Reynolds

  “Hey, well, don’t get me wrong. I don’t have no prejudices.”

  “Of course,” Steve said. “Well, excuse me, Mr. Kovac.”

  Carla shrilled something to him across the room and he swiveled his way through the press toward her.

  Dave caught him by the arm for a moment and chattered, “Steve, dear boy, isn’t it a perfectly lovely party?”

  Steve grunted and said, “Where’s all the Moroccan motif you were going to have?”

  Dave giggled archly. “Well, in trying to dig up some nice lads to act as dancing boys, I got side-tracked and — ”

  “Never mind,” Steve said, “tell me sometime when I’m not so prone to nausea. See you later, Dave. Carla wants something or other.”

  As he got nearer, he saw Gerald Silletoe standing next to the diminutive Carla Rossi. The burly American’s face was dark and he was obviously just short of being in a rage.

  The contessa, by the looks of things, had been needling him, and the contessa was an old hand at aristocratic needling.

  She said to Steve now, “What does one do in your country with gate crashers, Steve?”

  Silletoe said heavily, “I am not a gate crasher. I came to see Miss Whiteley.”

  Carla arched her eyebrows at Steve. “You see? But that sweet Nadine Whiteley does not wish to see him. What does one do, Steve?”

  “You keep out of this, Buster,” Silletoe snapped.

  Steve said softly, “In this particular case, we might try phoning Interpol, Contessa.”

  She patted him on the arm. “Carla is sure you will handle it, Steve.” And she swept away.

  Steve faced Silletoe.

  The other growled contemptuously, “What’s this Interpol, Buster?”

  “In your profession, I’m surprised you don’t know,” Steve said evenly. “It’s short for International Police. Over here the police co-operate closely. For instance, if somebody dropped the word to the French agents de police that an American with a record was operating on the Riviera, they’d pick him up like a shot. If he tried to move over to Italy, the Italians would be waiting at the border. So would the British, the Belgians, or wherever he might want to go. I suggest you leave Miss Whiteley alone, Silletoe.”

  “There’s no charge against me over here, Buster. I’m here as a tourist.”

  Steve said, “You’d be surprised how easily they can dig up a charge, these French police. They don’t like tourists with long records. Besides, we have a charge. One that involves some five thousand dollars that was stolen from me last night.”

  There was amusement in Silletoe’s eyes behind the surface anger.

  “Buster, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’ve got an idea you’d have a hard time convincing the local John Laws you ever had five grand.” He let his eyes go up and down Steve’s attire, on the face of it, clothing that had cost a fraction of his own. “Where would a lousy tourist agent get that kind of dough?”

  Steve said, low in his throat, “Maybe we better step out into the garden, Silletoe.”

  The other belched sudden laughter. “That’d be something, wouldn’t it? Take a look at yourself, Buster. Your hands are shaking from boozing, your face is swollen from the last time somebody clipped you.” He squinted at Steve Cogswell, in mock humor. “And I’ve got an idea your stomach still aches from the last time you ran into a real man. Don’t be silly, Buster. You don’t want to go out into the garden with me. An amateur should never fool around with an old pro at his own game.”

  What enraged Steve Cogswell was that he knew the other was right. On top of everything else, Jerry Silletoe outweighed him a good twenty pounds. But above all, he, Steve Cogswell, was still sick from hangover and the physical beating he’d taken the night before.

  Silletoe snapped, “Now listen. You tell Miss Whiteley I’ll be back here tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got something to show her. Something she’ll be better off seeing. If she doesn’t let me talk to her, the folks back in Samara are going to have some awful big changes in their opinions of the Whiteley family.” He spun on his heel and clumped angrily through the French windows leading onto the lawn and was gone.

  Steve Cogswell looked after him. He was beginning to wonder whether or not his own personal problems were quite up to those of Nadine Whiteley.

  Chapter Six

  Wednesday, August 10th

  Nadine had simply not understood what it was that Jerry Silletoe could be threatening her with. After the American grifter had left the contessa’s party, Steve had found her and given her a rundown on what Silletoe had said. She was disturbed, but uncomprehending. Steve had advised her to talk to the man — in the safety of Carla Rossi’s villa, and with Carla in easy earshot. Nothing could be lost by that, he’d counseled her.

  Steve had then returned to the party, but only for a matter of moments and to call out greetings to Gordon Payant and other particular friends.

  For the first time in years, this sort of get-together irritated him more than anything else — the gossip, the dirty jokes, the continual flirtation between male and female, both of whom were usually already married but far from being above a bit of extramarital dalliance. Silletoe’s words about his physical shape and his being a boozer rankled him, but he had enough insight to realize their validity. Face it man, you’re a boozer — a lush and a woman chaser. Even scum like Jerry Silletoe is in a position to be contemptuous of you.

  The afternoon was well along by then. Steve had driven into Beaulieu, had a sizable dinner of bourride and pieds el paquets without the customary wine, and then returned to the trailer. He had a brisk evening swim and then returned to his bed. He hadn’t framed it completely in his mind as yet, but he already had a germ of idea, and was working up a campaign.

  In the morning he had almost completely recovered from both hangover and beating. He went through his usual routine, stressing a heavy breakfast and then took off for Monaco.

  Early though he was, Elaine had already opened the office.

  “Bon jour, Monsieur Cogswell,” she told him, pertly.

  “Okay, okay,” he growled at her. “Get it out of your system. Let’s hear a few wise cracks, then we can go to work.”

  Her eyes were wide in innocence. “But I didn’t say a word, Monsieur Cogswell.”

  “Which is almost a dirty crack on its own,” he said, grinning at her. “Listen, Elaine, get on the phone and locate a Mr. or Mrs. — either will do — Gunther, staying at the Negresco in Nice. Say that I’d like to see them soonest.”

  She began dialing. “You wish to speak to one of them?”

  “Not on the phone. Just as soon as they can make it here. When they show up, find some excuse to leave for ten or fifteen minutes, will you, Elaine?”

  “I can go over to the tourist office to see if there are any special events for next week’s group.”

  Elaine made the date, and then she and Steve submerged themselves in the paper work in which he was falling behind this week. A dozen bills to be paid to night clubs, bus rental agencies, boat rental agencies, restaurants, and beach concessions where the Far Away Holidays people had privileges.

  There were two letters from the London office, eating him out because of this complaint or that, about par for the course. Steve figured on somewhere between one and five beefs per week.

  The phone rang and it was from one of the hotel managers. He was indignant. Two of Steve’s clients who had represented themselves as brothers who wished to share a room evidently weren’t brothers. Or, at least, if they were there was some strange incestuous relationship between them as well.

  The manager explained, with true Gallic tolerance, that he did not mind two gentlemen who had unique ideas about sexual mores, but the occupants of the neighboring rooms were protesting against the noise and the sobs and cries that issued from room Number 69.

  Steve placated him as best he could, promised he’d speak stiffly to the two offenders, and put down his phone with a sigh.

  “These
English,” he grumbled. “Probably a couple of the most conservative people in their home town, scoutmasters, prominent church laymen. So they come all the way down here to do their version of living it up.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Elaine said.

  “Nothing,” he said. “You are much too young to know about such things.”

  “Ha!” Elaine said.

  The door was open for the coolness and he didn’t notice the presence of Fay and Mart Gunther until Gunther cleared his voice and said, “Stevie — uh, Mr. Cogswell.”

  Elaine looked up and said, “I’ll have to run over to the National Tourist Office, Monsieur.”

  Steve said to her, “Okay, Elaine,” and then to Fay and Mart, “Sit down, please.”

  When Elaine was gone and everyone settled, Steve came to the point. “You wanted to buy me out, the other day. What did you have in mind in the way of payment?”

  Mart squirmed grossly in his chair, his lower lip went out in a pout that made him look childish. “Well, not a great deal, Stevie. More like a token.”

  Steve looked at Fay. Fay the cool and self-possessed. She was dressed, as always, so as to look like a million. She’d always had that ability. Even when their fortunes had been at the lowest ebb, Fay had managed to look as though she’d never known what it was to stint on clothing. Now she crossed silken legs. “It’s more a favor than anything else, Steven,” she murmured.

  It took an effort for Steve to say to her, “I don’t believe I owe you two any favors.” He looked back to Mart Gunther. “But I do need five thousand dollars.”

  “Five thousand,” Mart sputtered. “I was thinking in terms of something like five hundred. Enough to make it worth signing the papers. But — good God, man, I didn’t come here to be held up.”

  Steve was impatient. “Listen, if it’s worth your while to hire a detective to locate me, and for the two of you to trek all the way over here, then five thousand dollars can’t make that much difference to you and these new partners. That’s approximately the amount I put into the firm in the first place.”

  Mart rubbed his chubby hand over his pouting mouth. “That original five thousand disappeared a long time ago, Stevie.”

  Steve Cogswell said nothing. He couldn’t keep his eyes from Fay — from her lips, her body, the cunning turn of her ankles. His memory of her was so perfect that even now it took no effort whatsoever to picture her as he’d seen her so often in the privacy of their bedroom.

  Fay had always slept nude, even in the winter months. It had been his pleasure to rub her back for her, and she’d responded, kitten-like. Fay had loved to have her back rubbed.

  Mart Gunther brought his open hand down on a heavy knee in decision. “All right, we can probably swing it.”

  Steve said, “It only makes sense to me if I can have the money by the end of this week.”

  “But it’s already Wednesday!”

  “I know. And I need the money by Saturday morning, at the latest. Otherwise, it stops making too much difference to me, and I think I’d be inclined to say let Gunther & Cogswell fold — I don’t want my name on the firm.”

  “I’ll have to send some cables, make some phone calls, get hold of a lawyer who knows American law.”

  Steve said, “Then I suggest you go down to the American Consulate in Marseille. They’ll put you onto somebody. I’ll sign whatever you have drawn up, but I’ll have to have that money in some negotiable form by Saturday morning.

  “It’s a bargain,” Mart said, coming to his feet. He strode forward and held out his hand for a shake.

  Steve looked down at it, then looked up into Mart’s eyes and shook his head. “Come around as soon as you get your papers to be signed, and the five thousand. And if you’ll excuse me now, Gunther, I’m busy.”

  • • •

  He finished off his correspondence with Elaine’s assistance, took care of three or four other chores which were strictly routine, then left her at the office and headed for the Casino, walking for the exercise. He went down Boulevard Princess Charlotte to Avenue Saint Michel and then along the Boulingrins to the Place du Casino.

  By this time it was open, although the clientele was limited largely to elderly women, highly painted, drably dressed in the finery of yesteryear. More than one, he knew, was here gambling for her day’s expenses — her rent, her food, possibly her daily alcohol need. If she lost, she went without.

  He had no difficulty in finding the croupier at the roulette wheel at which he’d been so lucky the past Saturday night. The other nodded to him and smiled. Steve had left him a notable tip on that occasion.

  There were only two or three players at the wheel. Steve said, “Henri, could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “Certainement, Monsieur Cogswell,” the croupier said. He must have touched a button with his foot, or in some other manner signaled one of the prowling, inconspicuous housemen. This husky, discreetly garbed employee stepped quickly to Henri’s side, his eyebrows up in inquiry.

  Henri muttered something to him and the other took over his croupier’s stick. “In the bar, Monsieur Cogswell?” Henri said politely.

  “That’s fine.”

  In the bar, they both took coffee. The croupier because of house rules, Cogswell because he was off the hard stuff for a while. Until he’d settled matters with Silletoe, he told himself.

  They took their coffee to a table, and Steve came immediately to the point. “You remember my winning the other night?”

  The other nodded. “Your luck was excellent.”

  “It came to some thirty-five thousand new francs.”

  The other pursed his lips. “Very excellent indeed, Monsieur.”

  Steve leaned forward. “The thing is, Henri, I was robbed of almost the full amount and I’m trying to find a way of proving the man who did it was responsible. One thing I’ve got to do is have evidence I had such a sum.”

  Henri was sympathetic. But what could he do?

  “You could testify that I’d won that amount.”

  Henri shrugged hugely and regretfully. “I only know you won at my table, how much I am not sure. Nor do I know that you didn’t lose it at some other table, or even in some other casino later that night. These things are unfortunate, Monsieur Cogswell, and I would enjoy doing you the favor, but my employers take a very bad view of Casino employees getting into legal matters. It brings unfortunate publicity.”

  Steve sank back in his seat. Actually, it was the answer he’d expected.

  “If there is nothing else?”

  Steve said, “One other thing. Those housemen who wander around. Do you know which one was in the vicinity of your table on Monday night, when I got so tight here?”

  Henri considered, smoothing his hairline of a mustache with a thumbnail. “They circulate, you know, but Georg concentrates on my wheel, as a rule. I believe, in fact, he spoke to you Monday.”

  “Georg?”

  “Georg Herzog. Possibly you have never noticed him. Part of the job is to remain inconspicuous. Georg is particularly efficient.”

  “Herzog? Sounds like a German.”

  “A former Nazi paratrooper, so I understand,” Henri said expressionlessly. Steve knew that the croupier had been a French resistance fighter, several times decorated.

  “I wonder if I could talk to him.”

  Henri came to his feet. “I’ll send him in.”

  Georg Herzog did ring a bell, now that Steve Cogswell saw him. When the big, quiet-spoken German approached his table, Steve stood up and shook hands. The other palmed the hundred new franc note tip without change of expression. He drew up a chair and said, “Henri suggested you might from me some information want, Herr Cogswell.”

  “You know my name?”

  The German shrugged. “I have seen you around for several years. In my position, we get to know the regulars.”

  “Monday night …” Steve began.

  Georg said uncomfortably, “The reason I spoke to you Monday, Herr Cogswe
ll, was beyond my usual call of duty. However, I have seen the gentleman’s type before, and, of course, they at the Casino are not welcome. The least bit out of line, and the management so informs them.”

  Steve let air whistle from between his teeth. “The gentleman?” he said.

  “The one I warned you about, Herr Cogswell.”

  Steve leaned forward again. He suddenly craved a drink, but he suppressed the desire. He said, “Listen, Georg, I’d had a bit too much that night, as you probably noticed. Tell me about this … gentleman.”

  Georg ran a finger down a faint scar along his jawline. He said carefully, “If you will pardon me, Herr Cogswell, you were making little effort to disguise the fact that your wallet contained a considerable sheaf of high-denomination banknotes. And that you, yourself, were a bit, uh, tipsy you Americans say?”

  “I was that,” Steve nodded. “I didn’t know I was showing off my newly acquired wealth.” His voice held self-deprecation.

  The German shifted heavy shoulders and smiled without humor. “It is with me when I am in my cups the same. As I say, we have seen the type before. He was watching you, in just such a way. I spoke to you very briefly in warning.”

  “And what did I say?”

  “I am afraid, Herr Cogswell, that you were too far gone to understand.”

  “I see. Could you describe this man?”

  Georg Herzog’s memory was perfect. So was his description of Jerry Silletoe. He wound up by revealing that the other had left the Casino only a moment or so after Steve.

  Steve’s voice had overtones of excitement now. “Could you testify to that? To the police?”

  The German’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Testify what, Herr Cogswell? That this man looked at your money in envy? I do not think my Casino employers would appreciate my going to the police with such a story.”

  Steve relaxed. “No, of course not. Damn it, I have nothing at all in the way of proof. Well, thanks a lot, Georg. I appreciate it.”

  Herzog looked at him speculatively. He said slowly and heavily, “Herr Cogswell, this man is your enemy, huh?”