Episode on the Riviera

by Mack Reynolds

  “Yes,” Steve said simply.

  The German nodded. “Your face it shows you have been assaulted, huh?”

  Steve touched the tiny scar on his cheek, and his jaw still felt swollen.

  The German said, “Herr Cogswell, how long has it been since you have fought with a man in a serious fight?”

  Steve thought back. “A couple of bar brawls a few years ago. Otherwise, not since I was a kid, I suppose. In modern life, you don’t do much in the way of fist fighting.”

  “Of course not. Few men do — except in wartime. And what did you do when you had your bar brawls, invite the other gentleman back into the alley, and then the two of you put up your hands in Marquis of Queensbury fashion and flail away at each other? And if one was knocked down, stand politely back until he got up again?”

  There was sarcasm in the ex-Nazi paratrooper’s voice, and Steve flushed, but he said, “That’s about it, I suppose. The same way we fought in school.”

  The German nodded. “I have this to tell you, Herr Cogswell. That is not the fashion this enemy of yours will fight. I tell you again, I have seen his type before. He is a professional, Herr Cogswell. As I am a professional. If you and I were to fight seriously, right now, Herr Cogswell, I could kill you with my hands within a single minute.”

  Steve was taken aback. He realized that he didn’t doubt the other’s word.

  The German continued heavily, “Herr Cogswell, you are raised a gentleman. You do not understand fighting. There is no gentlemen when there is fighting. There is only destroy or be destroyed. Sometimes there is only kill or be killed.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said blankly.

  The German looked at the blunt ends of his fingertips. “Perhaps you are in need of hired assistance, Herr Cogswell.”

  Steve thought about it. He shook his head. “Thanks, Georg, but my ego has taken enough of a beating these past few days. I don’t think there’d be much left of it if I started buying protection against a man who isn’t that much bigger than I am.”

  • • •

  At the Pavilion Budapest, in his conversation with Nadine Whiteley, Jerry Silletoe made it clear how they stood.

  Nadine received him in the library, the door open and Carla Rossi obviously hovering not too far out of earshot of ordinary conversation. Carla had taken a shine to the obviously confused Nadine, and she was going to be sure nothing happened to the American girl under the roof of her villa.

  They sat in the library, facing each other, in armchairs, and Silletoe made his pitch.

  His voice kept the gentlemanly tone he’d cultivated over the years, particularly after he had reached the point where he could climb out of the gutters of Brooklyn. He said, “Nadine, you know I love you, that I’ve wanted to marry you, all along.”

  She made a gesture of negation with her hand. “Please, Jerry.”

  “What the matter?”

  “Whatever little there was between us is over now.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s just beginning, Nadine.”

  “Jerry,” she said patiently, “my plant manager, Bill Updegraff — do you remember him?”

  “He didn’t like me from the first.”

  “He didn’t trust you from the first, Jerry. In fact, he evidently hired someone to investigate you.”

  Jerry Silletoe’s eyes narrowed.

  Nadine said wearily, “He found out about your — your career, Jerry.”

  “Look, Nadine,” he said, “that’s all in the past. But our marriage is the future.”

  She shook her head. “That’s impossible, Jerry. I was taken up with you for a short time. But everything ended that night in Samara.”

  He put his hand into the inner pocket of his sport jacket and emerged with a large envelope which he handed over to her. “I’m going to make this blunt, darling. You need me. I need you. I’m willing to do anything to bring you around. Anything at all. Suppose, for instance, these photographs were circulated in Samara. You’re the last of the Whiteley family, aren’t you? How long have the Whiteleys been the pride of Samara?”

  She didn’t understand him. Frowning, she took the two photos from the envelope. They were unbelievably clear and detailed. She was in the process of fleeing Steve Cogswell’s trailer, all but completely nude, her clothes grasped in one hand. The second photo must have been taken immediately afterward. She was in this, too, her face perfectly clear and identifiable; through the door of the trailer could be seen Steve Cogswell, also nude, his masculinity completely obvious.

  Nadine stared in horror. “But … but it was dark. It was night.”

  Silletoe said drily, “The art of photography has progressed, darling.”

  “But there was no flash.”

  “Infrared flash. The human eye doesn’t see it, but the film emulsion does.”

  In a frenzy, she tore the photos to shreds.

  “I have the negatives,” he said.

  She continued to stare at him in horror. “One minute you tell me you love me, and the next you threaten to display these horrible pictures in my home town. You’re … you’re terrible.”

  He was shaking his head. “I know best, Nadine. You need me. You need marriage. Some way I’ve got to bring that home to you. Even if I have to threaten you to do it.”

  “You’re insane!”

  He was shaking his head emphatically. “You need a man, Nadine. You know perfectly well what those photos prove. They prove that the same thing that happened to us in Samara, that night in the front room of your house, happened the other night in the trailer. You need a man — but you’re afraid. All right, marry me and I’ll … I’ll see that you get one. A real man, not a pip-squeak like that Cogswell.”

  She brought her arms closer to her body, in an attempt to control her involuntary shuddering. She said, her voice so low as hardly to be heard, “What you’re saying is that once we were married you’d rape me.”

  Jerry Silletoe put a hand forward and laid it on her knee. “That’s not the way to put it. You’d soon fit into a normal married life. Haven’t I proved how much I love you?”

  “By taking blackmailing pictures of me!”

  He said patiently, “I knew from the first we were meant for each other, Nadine. When you came over here to Europe, I had you followed by a friend. By the time I got here, he already reported you going out with that lush, Cogswell. I realized I had to take measures, particularly since you’re upset these days and don’t really know your own mind. I admit I followed you and took those pictures. I needed something to impress you and bring home the reality of the situation.”

  Nadine’s mind spun. She was emotionally empty. Perhaps Jerry was right, at that. If she married him, the situation would have to be brought to a head. He was strong, determined, forceful. Handing her affairs and herself over to Jerry Silletoe might end this perpetual drain on her emotional resources.

  She brought both of her hands up to her mouth. “I don’t know. I don’t know,” she said.

  A new voice intruded upon them. “Everything all right?” Carla Rossi said brightly.

  “Everything’s fine,” Silletoe growled. “Just leave us alone.”

  The contessa put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “You seem tired, my dear.”

  “Yes,” Nadine said. “Yes, I am. I — I have to think. I must think.”

  Jerry Silletoe came to his feet, still glaring at Carla. “I’ll go and make plane reservations,” he said. “I’ll take everything over. Don’t worry about a thing, darling. Get a good night’s rest and I’ll come for you tomorrow.”

  After he was gone, Carla looked at the girl worriedly. “Carla doesn’t want to put her nose in your business, but are you sure that you know what you are doing with that man?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  Carla said, “I think perhaps before you make an important decision about this man, you should discuss it with someone who Carla thinks likes you very much, eh?”

  Nadine looked up at h
er, confused. “Someone who likes me very much? Here, in France?”

  The contessa said, her face gently impish, “Carla has seen on the Côte d’Azur much of romance in the past twenty years, eh? Carla thinks someone who likes you very much is your countryman, Steve Cogswell.”

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday, August 11th

  Steve Cogswell was coming to the end of one tourist week, the beginning of the next. Tomorrow his usual contingent, sixty-seven in number, would be incoming, plus six extras. In spite, of Elaine’s efforts, thus far they’d found no accommodations for the six. Every first-class hotel on the Riviera seemed packed. The boss should have known better than to have sold the extra package tours. What did he think Cogswell was, a hotel builder?

  He had an inspiration toward noon.

  “Listen, Elaine, phone Luigi Bertolini at the Royal Hotel in San Remo. Perhaps he’s got some vacant rooms.”

  “San Remo? But, Monsieur Cogswell, that’s in Italy.”

  “What difference does it make? It’s only about eight miles from here, and they’ve got every facility on the Italian Riviera that we have on the French. If this home office saddles us with six more tourists than we have reservations for, they’ll have to figure out some way of paying off in Italian lire rather than French francs.”

  Elaine reached for the telephone. Miracle of miracles, Luigi had the rooms. One more crisis had been met.

  Just as Steve was leaving for lunch, the phone rang again. He stopped at the door and looked back.

  Elaine answered it. She put a hand over the mouthpiece. “Mr. Kamiros.”

  Steve’s face went expressionless. “Tell him I’ll have his money for him Saturday morning.” With that Steve turned and left. What was Conny trying to do, rub it in? Evidently, revenge was sweet to the Greek tycoon. Hell, Steve couldn’t even remember the girl’s name.

  Ordinarily, he would have eaten at one of the hotels that housed his tourists, but somehow he wasn’t up to the rich French cuisine. He drove back to the Pavilion Budapest, parked his car in the parking area and headed toward his trailer.

  Carla called to him from the garden and he waved back. She said, “Did you see the Whiteley girl?”

  He scowled and walked over to her. “Nadine? When?”

  “Just now. She just drove into Monte Carlo to see you.”

  “I must have passed her on the road. Do you know what it was about?”

  “Something about that man Silletoe. Steve, Carla thinks that man wants to marry her.”

  He cocked his head to one side questioningly. “Wants to marry you?”

  “Don’t be silly. He wants to marry Nadine. Nobody wants to marry Carla. She is much too old and … used.”

  “I’ll marry you,” Steve said, “just to keep you from continually carping about nobody wanting you. Sure Silletoe wants to marry her. She’s got money.”

  The contessa nodded, worriedly. Uncharacteristically, she allowed Steve’s gambit of humor to pass. She said, “But I am not sure that she has not accepted him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  The contessa shrugged.

  Steve started for the trailer again. “I’ll see her this afternoon.”

  He opened a can of mushroom soup, mixed it with milk from the refrigerator and put it on the buta gas stove. While it heated, he brought out English milk crackers, butter and a small wedge of Brie.

  Confound Carla, she must be off her rocker. Particularly after that cable from her plant manager, Nadine couldn’t possibly consider marrying that half-baked gangster.

  Or could she? The girl was obviously so mixed up that almost anybody could sway her, given some sort of hold on her. What was it that Silletoe thought he had that would influence her decisions? He was sorry he’d missed the girl and wondered where she was now. Elaine would be able to tell her that he’d returned here.

  He ate the soup, half a dozen of the crackers and the cheese, washed the dishes quickly, put away the balance of the food and then stripped for a quick swim. There wasn’t any question of getting back to the office. Elaine could take over for the rest of the afternoon. Thursday afternoon was the nearest thing he had in the way of a day off during the height of the tourist season. At least, every other Thursday was. Elaine took it off one week, he the next.

  He was irritated to see that someone else was on the beach. He hoped it wouldn’t be one of his clients to whom he’d have to be polite and carry on a conversation.

  It wasn’t. It was Fay Gunther and she was breath-taking in a bikini composed of two wisps of textile and a prayer to keep them adhered to her lush body.

  They stood and confronted each other for a moment. Steve didn’t know what to make of her being here.

  She raised highly plucked eyebrows questioningly. “You don’t seem very glad to see me, Steven. I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour. The maid up at the house said you usually found time for a swim this afternoon.”

  “I was just surprised. Where’s Mart?”

  She sank down onto the sand. “Gone into Marseille to take care of the paper work involved in your business transaction. He won’t be back until tomorrow.” She peeked at him sideways. “You’re the one person I know here on the Riviera, so I thought that we might renew an old acquaintanceship.”

  Even while he was reacting to the provocation of her figure and the undertones of her voice, Steve speculated about her motivation. It could have nothing to do with his bowing out of Gunther & Cogswell since he’d already agreed to that. Perhaps it was, as she said, pure boredom. She knew nobody here and Mart was gone for the day.

  He took a place beside her, encircled his knees with his arms and said, apropos of nothing, “It’s been a long time, Fay.”

  The corners of her full mouth dropped, seemingly half in sadness, half in humor. “Have you missed me, Steven?”

  What a thing to say, considering the circumstances. He played it straight. “Sometimes. At first, quite a bit.”

  She took a handful of sand and let it dribble slowly from her fist back to the beach. “Very romantic, your dashing off like this and becoming a — what do you call them?”

  “You mean expatriate?”

  “Is that like Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald, back in the twenties? You know, the Lost Generation?”

  Steve laughed. It struck him that Fay might be quite the acme in sexual attractiveness but she was on the naïve side beneath her veneer of sophistication. They had reversed positions in that respect during the past five years.

  “I suppose so,” he said. “It seems to me that every generation, this century, seems to manage to get lost. What do they call this current batch — the beatniks?”

  She laughed, too, but it didn’t quite come off. It occurred to Steve Cogswell that Fay had never been much for humor. Laughter from her lips always seemed to have an artificial quality. Life was too serious for Fay for laughter. “The beatniks are old-hat now,” she said. “The newest generation thinks they’re old fogies.”

  To make conversation, Steve said. “How are you and Mart getting along, Fay? No children?”

  She shrugged shoulders that were too white as shoulders on the Riviera went. She could have used more exposure to the sun. “No children.” She added, seemingly idly, “As as matter of fact, Mart and I have become … well, more philosophical about our love life as the years have gone by.” She laughed with a trace of embarrassment, as though letting him in on a family secret since they were such close acquaintances. “And as Mart’s tummy has grown.”

  “Oh?” Steve said. She had assumed a prone posture now which had a wanton quality. He could feel his throat thicken, as it always did when the animal urge of sex was beginning to grow upon him. There were times when the bikini was more provocative than complete nudity.

  She closed her eyes and turned her face directly to the sun. “This is probably a terrible thing to say, especially to you, Steven, but I’ve sometimes wondered what would have happened if you hadn’t — well, discovered M
art and me that day. Possibly it would have all blown over, in time. I don’t mind confessing that he isn’t quite the man I once thought.”

  There was a simmering within Steve, but he said nothing.

  She opened her eyes wide enough to look at him through eyelashes, and there was a roguish twist to her lips. “Though, of course, you weren’t exactly a Hercules in that department yourself — were you?”

  Steve said, and his voice had gone husky, as it always went husky, “Let’s go up to the trailer for a drink?”

  “Why not? And I’d like to see your little — would you call it a home?”

  “The nearest thing I’ve had to one for five years.”

  She came gracefully to her feet and started toward the parked house trailer. Now she looked over her shoulder at him. “You’re not bitter after all these years, are you, Steven?”

  He followed her, unable to refrain from watching the sway of her hips. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

  Her next words couldn’t have been more unexpected. She said, very low, “Still love me, Steven?”

  Steve Cogswell couldn’t think of an answer. They were at the trailer now and he opened the screen door for her and let her precede him inside.

  “Why, how clever,” she exclaimed. “You know, I’ve never been in one of these before. Why, you’ve got everything.” She turned and faced him. “You didn’t answer me, Steven.”

  He tried to keep it light. “Sometimes I think so, Fay.”

  Her control seemed to slip. Over her always beautiful and controlled face, slipped a mask of gross sensuality, almost wantonness. Her eyes drooped and she swayed toward him.

  As he grasped her, the tiny bathing suit halter dropped away and she stood nude except for the wisp about her hips. Her breasts were slightly heavier than he remembered them, and the tips were brown now rather than pink.

  Afterward he never remembered removing his own trunks, nor the second piece of her bikini. They had stumbled, without releasing each other, both breathing hard, through the tiny trailer kitchen and into the bedroom beyond.

  Stretched out on the bed, Fay had moaned in the manner that came back to him now as though there had been no five years between. She moaned and demanded him, her body squirming on the whiteness of the bed’s sheets. The Venetian blinds of the trailer’s windows were down, to exclude the heat of the sun’s rays, and the room was almost as dark as it would be at night.