CHAPTER FOUR

Monday, August 8th

Fay and Mart Gunther didn’t show up at the office until early afternoon.

Steve had slept late himself, knowing that Elaine would be able to hold down the fort until it was time for her to take over the tour to Grasse at about eleven o’clock. He had slept until ten and then taken a quick dip with the contessa and Dave Shepherd.

That pair of perpetual partygoers were, as Gordon Payant had reported, planning a cocktail affair for the following day. Dave, who was splitting the expenses with Carla, was all for making it a theme party, with Morocco as the theme. Moroccan decorations, Moroccan hors d’oeuvres, Moroccan drinks.

“That’s all I need,” Steve told him. “Moroccan drinks. That hangover I got from your absinthe frappés is hardly over. My friends, please count me out.”

“Ha!” the contessa, whose figure was never better to be appreciated than in a bikini, told him. “Carla has heard this many times. Count me out, this loup-garou of the Côte d’Azur says, but when the party begins, with the drinks and the girls, who is always flittering around?”

“Flittering around,” Dave had giggled. “Now that’s an apt way of putting it. What is a loup-garou? It sounds frightfully appealing.”

Steve was scowling at Carla, whose face was impishly innocent.

“It means werewolf,” he said. “I don’t get the application to me.”

“But Carla thinks it is perfectly obvious,” the contessa said. “All day long our hard-working Mr. Cogswell dashes about chaperoning his tourists, a perfectly respectable man. But when night comes he turns into a wolf. And what does he do to all the pretty girls? He lays them.”

Dave fluttered his hands to his ears. “Please,” he said. “I just can’t stand to hear women using four-letter words.”

Steve was laughing.

Carla said seriously, “You know, this is a very strange thing. I could never say, in Hungarian, the equivalent of your four-letter words. Never in the world in my own language. But in English, or French, it means nothing to me. Nothing at all.”

Steve said, “Well, believe me, it can come as a shock, when an attractive, cultivated woman meets you and out come terms usually associated with the poetry on rest room walls.” He laughed again.

Dave went back to the party. “I could whip up a batch of El Majoun, and then we could fake some dancing boys.”

“El Majoun?” Carla said suspiciously.

“Dancing boys?” Steve said.

“What is this El Majoun?” Carla said. “Already Carla suspects she doesn’t like it.”

“What’s wrong with dancing girls?” Steve demanded.

“Well, my dears,” Dave fluttered. “We do want to be authentic, you know, if we have a Moroccan motif. El Majoun is hashish fudge. You take almonds, walnuts, raisins, and honey, and butter, and—”

“Hashish fudge!” Carla said accusingly. “Oh, no, you don’t. I can see just how long Carla would remain in business when the word got to the police that she served hashish fudge at Pavilion Budapest parties.”

Dave shrugged his shoulders prettily, as though there were no pleasing some people, and turned to Steve. “Hollywood to the contrary, dear boy, you don’t have dancing girls in Moroccan night clubs, or anywhere else that they might be seen by Christian men. It would cause riots. Instead, they have the cutest boys ever, all done up in Moroccan women’s clothing. My dears, it’s quite a sight. The boys are trained from childhood. They’re specially, ah, prepared.” Dave giggled again. “You know, emasculated.”

“Hell!” Steve said. “I can see I’m going to stay away from this party in droves.”

The contessa said indignantly, “Ha, no dancing boys in my villa, Dave Shepherd. If we are that short of dancers, Carla will dance herself.”

“Oh, you people have no real imagination,” Dave said, in a huff.

Steve leered heavily at Carla Rossi, letting his eyes sweep up and down her figure. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, his voice low with pretended sexiness. “How about the dance of the seven veils?”

She swatted him across his buttocks, jumped to her feet and headed for the water. “Loup-garou,” she said over her shoulder.

After his swim, Steve had driven into Monte Carlo in the Citroën station wagon, arriving in time to relieve Elaine at the office. Her tourist group consisted of only fifteen persons, and she was taking them in a small Fiat bus.

There was the usual mail, none of it important except one from the Far Away Holidays office in London. The extra number of tourists was to be eight, not ten. Steve grunted something under his breath about giving thanks for all small favors and thumbed his way through the balance of the morning’s offerings.

There was a cable for Nadine Whiteley from New York. He remembered her saying something about taking a drive up into the mountain villages of Provence in her rented Simca, so there was no way of contacting her before evening. He put the cable into his inner jacket pocket.

He kept himself busy at paper work until lunch, then ate over at the grill in the Hotel de Paris. One of the advantages of this job, Steve was of the opinion, was the fact that his duties including eating at least once a week in each of the hotels where the Far Away Holidays vacationists were staying—on the house, of course. Supposedly he was keeping tabs on the quality of the food. It couldn’t be better than at the grill.

Back in the office again, he took up where he had left off. Thank goodness, at least, that he was getting neither phoned complaints nor enraged tourists calling at the office today.

It was then that the door opened, and there were Fay and Martin Gunther.

“Hello, Steven,” Fay said.

“Hi, Stevie,” Mart said.

In five years, Mart Gunther had gone a bit more to weight. His jowls were heavier, his movements on the sluggish side.

But the years had done little to Fay—little more than to realize the promise of the less mature beauty of her youth. The soft mouth perhaps was a trace less delicate than in yesteryear, the breasts a trifle less arrogant, but ah, the long legs, the striking body, the grooming and easy grace of Fay. It was all there. She was still all Fay.

Steve said, heavily, “Then it was you last night. Yes, of course.” He pushed back his chair and came to his feet and motioned to the customers’ chairs. “Sit down, Fay, Gunther.”

For a brief moment, Martin Gunther looked as though he were going to step forward to shake hands, but then the automatic gesture of the hand checked itself and after he had seated Fay he took the other chair, sinking into it with a sigh.

He’s beginning to be a fat man, Steve thought dully. He’s only a couple of years or so older than I am. He sat down again himself.

Fay leaned forward. “Oh, Steven, how are you?”

He looked at her. Her lips were slightly parted. When he was a young man, he remembered, they had all but driven him crazy with passion. He hadn’t been very experienced when he’d married Fay. Lord knows, he hadn’t.

He said evenly, “I’m fine, Fay. How have you been?”

She looked around the office and gestured. “But this place. Why, you were the third man in your class at M.I.T., Steven.”

“I like it,” he said flatly. “What a coincidence, our meeting here. Vacation?”

Mart Gunther cleared his throat. “It’s not exactly a coincidence that we’re here, Stevie…”

“The name is Mr. Cogswell,” Steve said flatly.

“Oh, Steven,” Fay said.

His eyes left the face of Mart Gunther, a face that was beginning to darken, and returned to her.

She leaned forward again. Her voice was artificial. “Steven, haven’t five years healed the wounds? They tell us that time heals everything.”

“Yes, so they tell us,” Steve said.

“Steven, can’t you see that it was the only thing that could happen? We weren’t happy. We could never have been happy. We just…we just weren’t meant for each other.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Her words came faster. She said earnestly, “Steven, listen to me. Martin and I are happy.”

“You’re married, eh? I wasn’t even sure we were divorced.”

Martin Gunther said, “We couldn’t get in touch with you. Nobody knew where you’d gone.”

“You said it was no coincidence, your being here,” Steve said.

Gunther said, “Look, we might as well lay it on the table. Stevie—” He twisted his mouth. “Mr. Cogswell, if you want it that way. We located you through a private detective.”

Steve scowled at him. “Why go to the bother?”

Fay gushed, “Steve, I had to apologize to you.”

“All right, Fay, you have.” Steve looked back to Mart Gunther. “And is that what motivates you? Is that why you hired a detective agency to locate me?”

Gunther said doggedly, “Look, it’s been five years and you haven’t even dropped us a postcard.”

Steve suddenly laughed. “What did you expect? Something with the Eiffel Tower on it and me writing having a wonderful time? Somehow I had gained the impression that we weren’t exactly friends any longer.”

Gunther said, impatience in his voice, “I was talking about the firm, not Fay and me as individuals.”

“The firm! You mean Gunther & Cogswell is still in existence?” Steve laughed again. He was getting the damnedest feeling of a lack of reality in this whole thing.

Gunther said, “It hasn’t been easy. But one way or the other, I’ve kept things going.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I won’t bore you with the details. Among other things, Fay had to take a job.”

Steve said, “Well, evidently the Horatio Alger bit came true. You’ve finally got to the point of doing well enough that here you are, taking a holiday on the Riviera.”

Gunther’s voice was still dogged. “This isn’t a vacation trip, Stevie. I keep telling you that. I’ve got a couple of new partners. Good men who want to come into the firm. But it’s not fair to them, or to Fay and me, for you to be a fifty percent partner. They’re going to put up not only their own training and abilities, but some money as well.” Mart Gunther pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped moisture from his forehead. It wasn’t a particularly hot day.

Steve said, “So you want me to bow out.”

“It’s only fair. You haven’t even been in the States for five years.”

Steve didn’t get part of this. He frowned and said, “Why didn’t you just dissolve Gunther & Cogswell and start off all fresh with these new men?”

Gunther made a gesture with his two hands, palm upward. “For one thing, the firm has been going for almost seven years. It’s established, no matter how poorly it’s been going. We’re known in the field. Our publicity and advertising has had some effect on potential customers.”

“It would be so much easier for us, Steven,” Fay injected.

Steve came suddenly to his feet. “Look,” he said, “where are you staying?”

“At the Negresco, in Nice.”

“Okay. Let me think about it. I don’t mind telling you both that I’m confused. Besides that, this is the height of my busy season and I’ve got a lot on my mind. Let me think about it and I’ll check back with you shortly.”

“I don’t know what there is to think about,” Mart Gunther protested, lumbering to his own feet. “I’m not asking you to give anything away. We’ll offer you a nominal sum for your interest.”

“I still want to think about it,” Steve said impatiently. “Frankly, this has come as a shock to me. I never expected to see either of you again.”

He ushered them to the door, taking Fay’s arm as he guided her.

His hand tingled with the contact.

Fay!

* * * *

They were gone.

Steve Cogswell locked the office and walked over to the little bistro on the corner at Avenue Saint Michel.

The fille de comptoir nodded to him. “Monsieur Cogswell.”

He took a stool. “Une fine, Bette, s’il vous plaît,” he said brusquely. “Armagnac.”

The barmaid’s eyebrows went up. Monsieur Cogswell, the American who worked with tourists from England, was usually on the pleasant and smiling side. In fact, Bette had long been of the opinion that she held a certain interest for him and that it was just a matter of time before he attempted to develop a relationship.

It was all right with Bette, she was available. In fact, she was anticipating. Now she shrugged and poured the brandy. Evidently, even Monsieur Cogswell had his bad days.

He knocked the brandy back, stiff-wristed.

“Encore, Bette,” he told her.

At this time of day? Bette shrugged again and refilled the glass. As she turned to replace the bottle on the counter behind the bar, he reached out and stayed her.

Monsieur Cogswell was evidently really in a bad way today. She left the bottle before him, as he desired, and went off to fill an order for one of the garçons who were waiting tables out in front on the sidewalk.

Steve knocked back the second drink, waited only momentarily before pouring still another.

He was shocked to realize the extent to which Fay was still able to affect him. Five years! Five years and a hundred women ago. How many women had he bedded since last he had seen Fay? He had no idea. Women in France and women in Spain, brunettes in Italy and blondes in Denmark, prim girls in England and lusty wenches in Germany. A compulsion, he sourly admitted to himself. This continual need to prove wrong the things of which Fay had accused him.

He poured another drink, downed it, then suddenly got down from his stool, tossed a bill on the bar and turned away, striding quickly from the place.

Bette picked up the money and looked after him. At least Monsieur Cogswell had left a tip large enough to double the cost of the Armagnac.

He went back to the office, got the station wagon and drove to the Place du Casino, where he parked and headed on foot for the Hotel de Paris. He had in mind putting a little pressure on René to get reservations for the eight extra tourists that were turning up this coming Friday, but the hotel manager wasn’t there.

Steve went into the hotel bar and had another double cognac.

He couldn’t understand what the hell Fay saw in Mart Gunther. She was at the height of her feminine beauty. Gunther had let himself become a slob. If it was simply a matter of sex—and that had obviously been their original attraction—surely she could do better now. Steve had another double.

René still wasn’t around. Steve walked back to his car and then stared across the street at the Casino. He brought out his wallet and considered the sheaf of bills there.

What the hell. Easy come, easy go. Unlucky in love, lucky in finance. He counted off the equivalent in francs of five thousand dollars and tucked that amount into a compartment of his large, French-style wallet and then made his way to the ornate entrance.

One of the housemen at the inner door smiled archly at him. “We have been expecting you back, Mr. Cogswell. Do you think your luck still holds tonight?”

Steve growled something at him and went on past to the bar. He was feeling the quickly consumed spirits now. What the hell, it’s not every day your past comes back and confronts you—and you find it’s not past at all.

What the hell, let’s face it. He was still in love with Fay.

He ordered another double and a moment later stared down into the empty glass. He couldn’t remember drinking it. He looked at the bartender suspiciously.

“Another one, sir?” that worthy said in English.

“Yeah, damn it,” Steve said accusingly. He’d never noticed before, but Edouard was obviously a bastard. Well, the bastard could just see how much of a tip he’d get. What was the big idea?

He was at the roulette table.

The hell with this system stuff. If the number was going to come up, it’d come up. It was all luck. No system was any better than any other. The fact that this damn Casino was still here and in business after a century of wise guys figuring out systems showed that nothing worked. If anything worked, the Casino would be broke, wouldn’t it?

The croupier said, anxiously, “Ca va, Monsieur Cogswell?”

“I’m all right, Henri,” Steve slurred. “Spin her.” The fog rolled in.

When it rolled out, he was back at the bar. He hadn’t remembered leaving the wheel. He felt in his pockets. There didn’t seem to be any chips. He couldn’t remember if he’d lost them all, or cashed them in, or what.

That called for a drink. When you got silly enough that you didn’t know what you did with your chips, you’d better start stopping, or stop starting, or however you wanted to put it, and start doing some serious drinking, or you’d lose all your money.

Suddenly he was afraid to look into his wallet to see if he’d gone into the five thousand he’d reserved for paying off his bet to Conny Kamiros. That was a dirty trick Conny had pulled on him, just for the sake of soothing a ruffled ego. But, damn it, had he been so tight that he’d gambled away the five thousand, too? He didn’t think so but he didn’t dare look.

He ordered another drink, noticing that Edouard was frowning worriedly at him. Good old Edouard, one of the best bartenders in Monaco. One of the best? What the hell. The best. He decided to leave a good-sized tip for his old pal Edouard. Along in here the fog rolled in again.

When the fog rolled out, he was in some bistro that he didn’t remember ever having seen before. He shook his head and made a mental note never to see it again. It was a hole-in-the-wall.

His vision cleared. He slurred, “Why, hello, Nadine. I didn’t see you.”

She laughed. “Didn’t see me? Good heavens, for the past half-hour you’ve been telling me how you used to pack up into Kings Canyon National Park with somebody named Old Mart and fish for trout.”

He shook his head again. “Hell, I feel awful. What time is it?”

She looked at her watch. “About ten.”

“How long—I mean, what happened? I’m afraid I’m a little tight.”

“A little tight. I’d hate to see you really hang one on,” she laughed at him. “I saw your car parked outside, about an hour ago, and looked in to see if you were here. I wanted to ask your advice on where I should drive tomorrow. You seemed to be a…bit under the weather, so I thought I’d rally round.”

He looked at her for a moment. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “I guess I ought to be getting to bed. Would you mind driving me home? I think I’d better leave my car here.”

“Let’s go, pal,” she said lightly.

* * * *

It was the same, or almost the same, as it had been the first time.

They had got Steve a couple of cups of black coffee and then, on the way back to the trailer in her Simca convertible, they’d put the top down and he’d let the cool touch of the Mediterranean night air wash over him.

He also remembered the cable that had come that morning and passed it to her and she’d put it away in her bag to be read when there was light. He had also checked his wallet, and found to his relief that the five thousand was intact.

There had been a strange simplicity in the way they had walked together down to the trailer. An air of inevitability, that seemed to dominate everything.

She hesitated only momentarily at the trailer door.

“Are you all right now?” she said.

“Of course. Stone sober.” There was a husky quality in his voice. She was ethereal in her beauty in the moonlight which struck her in such manner that her light blouse seemed not exactly transparent but actually nonexistent. It seemed as though her full breasts were bared.

She said then, a touch of indignity in her voice, “Then why in the world did you allow yourself to get that tight? You don’t seem to be the lush type.”

He grinned at her, wanly. “And you don’t seem to be the scolding mother type. I suppose I was being stupid, but I saw a ghost today.”

“A ghost?”

“My former wife. She and her new husband are staying in Nice.” He held the trailer door open and she entered and sat down on the small couch.

“I see,” Nadine said. She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. “Should it be as upsetting as all that? Are you still in love with her, Steve?” Then she said quickly, “No, don’t answer that, of course.”

He sat down next to her and there was an electric quality in the air. A touch of lightning. Nadine drew in her breath and felt her woman’s body respond to his animal maleness. Guided as though by an alien power without her, she reached forth her hand. Her eyes closed and she touched his thigh as she had at the bullfight in Nîmes—but this time consciously.

She tensed, and grasped him intimately. It was an instinctive, almost involuntary gesture and already he was ready for her.

She felt her senses swooning away as his eager hands moved on her, trembling, exploring. He forgot the other night. He forgot everything except this woman’s body, the treasures of the darkness her thighs framed.

Her blouse was gone, her breasts, the nipples warm cherry stones, proud, erect and demanding. She moaned when he took one in his lips.

“Darling, it’s so good,” she whispered. “Don’t wait any more. Oh, Steve, don’t make me wait any longer.…” Her voice fell away into incoherence.

Steve had never seen a woman in this extreme of need. Far away in his conscious mind, he was surprised, even, in a way, compassionate.

But that was his conscious mind, and a different reality. His current self was in a blind passion, possibly as strong as her own. He fumbled with his clothes, the sound of belt buckle and zipper loud in the silence of the night.

“Oh, quick,” she moaned.

He descended upon her waiting, yielding body. Now, this was it. This was the moment of truth, of glory. He pressed hard, ready to possess her completely.

Suddenly she dissolved into a screaming, pounding, squirming, scratching, she cat. Her small body, perhaps seventy-five pounds lighter than his own, abruptly displayed a strength beyond him.

In pure shock, he scrambled to his feet and stumbled back two or three steps, standing nude before her, to the rear of the trailer’s small living room.

Mewling like a terrified animal, Nadine grasped up blouse and skirt, and blindly darted for the light which marked the open but screened trailer door, suited to the summer heat and the occasional Riviera mosquito.

The screen banged open and then shut, behind her.

“Sonofabitch!” Steve blurted.

It took him several full minutes to control himself to the point where he stopped shaking, trembling with emotional crisis.

He looked down upon himself ruefully. “I must be losing my grip,” he muttered.

Then, partly in a return to the drunkenness and despair from which she had rescued him, he growled, “I’ve got to do something about that. One way or the other.”

He dressed and made his way up the path to the Pavilion Budapest. Nadine had disappeared. Probably, he decided viciously, cowering in her bed, behind a locked door. To one side, he seemed to see some movement. Was that a man’s figure, silhouetted over there? No, of course not, at this time of night.

He looked up at the contessa’s villa. There was a light in Carla’s bedroom window. He wondered, in his present condition, what response he would get if he knocked on her door. But then he shook his head. His relationship with Carla Rossi had been a long one and a friendly one. And she had been right, the other morning. It they became intimate just once, the friendship would be over. He knew himself that well. And evidently she did, too.

His own car was parked back there in front of the bistro where Nadine had found him, but that was no problem. She had left her keys in the Simca. The emergency was of her own making. She could hardly begrudge him the use of her vehicle to get into town and find some kind of relief, both physical and psychic.

* * * *

He picked the tart up in the Place Massena and followed her to her small hotel on the Avenue de la Victoire. She spoke English, as tarts are apt to do in Nice, the center of British tourism in southern France. She spoke English and had evidently worked out a system of cutting the time afforded a customer by arousing him with words before they ever got to her room.

She told Steve Cogswell, as they walked along the Avenue, just what it was she was willing to do for him. And her words were graphic. The darkness of sex was again upon him by the time they reached her room.

It was a sad room, a drab room, as so often are the dens of those who sell human flesh. He sat on the bed and looked at her, his face expressionless. Already some of it was going out of him.

“Love me, honey?” she smiled, her fingers going to the clasps at the side of her garish, tight, tart’s dress.

He didn’t answer her, but his face was flushed. She knew all the signs. Her mind was clicking away at business details, even as she disrobed provocatively. This one had been drinking. Drinking too much, which was sometimes bad. But he was an American and, hence, rich.

She would ask double her regular price and then he would probably tip her besides. It would probably take longer than usual, if he’d been drinking as much as she suspected, but then the amount of his “little gift” to her would more than make up for it.

The dress fell away and she smiled again. She wore nothing beneath except black silken panties and she hooked her thumbs in these and slowly, deliberately pressed down. She smiled into his eyes. “Like me?”

He still said nothing. He just sat and watched, his face flat.

She was worried. Was this one too drunk to perform? Sometimes when that happened, the customer got mad, and then anything might develop. She hoped there would be no noise. This hotel was not a bad base of operations and she didn’t want to be ordered from it.

She kicked her shoes away and literally nude now crossed over to him, taking short, provocative steps to arouse him the quicker. Zut! this one was cold.

She stood before him, hands on hips. “You like it?” she said, her voice low.

Steve bit out, as though irritated, “Evidently not.”

He was surprised at himself. The girl was cute, and young. They were seldom this young, even on the Côte d’Azur. Her body was still firm, and evidently comparatively unused. And, heavens knew, she was willing.

She sat down beside him and fondled him with an expert hand. “Perhaps you are too drunk, hein?”

“No, that’s not it,” Steve growled. Actually, he didn’t know what was wrong. He’d come here, coldly and deliberately. Now something was wrong.

The girl leaned closer to his ear. She whispered, “I am a French girl, you know.”

“No,” he said brusquely. “I don’t want that.” He came to his feet and scowled down at her. He began to say something, an excuse to leave, but she stood, too, and took him by the hand and led him to the bureau. There was a wicked wisdom in the way she looked at him from the side of her eyes.

“Ah, I know your kind,” she murmured. “You will see. It will cost more, but you are willing to pay. No?”

He didn’t know what she was talking about until she opened one of the drawers. Inside were three or four whips of various design. Behind him, she opened the closet door. “Or perhaps some of these,” she said, her voice heavy with urgency.

In the closet were fantastically high-heeled shoes and women’s leather boots that laced almost to the knee. Rubber clothing of various types. Leather clothing, both male and female. Ropes and cords.

His gorge rose.

She said throatily, “I will do anything Monsieur desires—for a price, Monsieur.” She added, “Or do you wish me to do it to you?”

A sort of impotent rage swept him. He fumbled in his pockets for money, brought out a fistful of bills and silver, tossed them on the bed and, pushing her angrily and brutally aside, pulled open the door and stumbled into the corridor beyond.

Too overcome with conflicting emotions to wait for the elevator, he walked, almost ran, down the stairs. He crossed the dingy lobby in what seemed to be no more than a dozen strides and emerged on the street. It took him a long moment to remember where he had parked the Simca.

He didn’t remember, later, the drive from Nice to the Pavilion Budapest, a distance of three or four miles. He pulled into the parking area, and garages, and left the car in the spot where Nadine Whiteley had parked it earlier in the evening. He left the key in it, as she had, and started to return to the trailer.

The alcohol was gone from him now, but he was exhausted with the aftermath of both the drinking and the emotional tensions he had been through the last twelve hours. He didn’t even see the hulking shadow which detached itself from a deeper shadow. The first he knew of the presence of the other was the crushing blow that hit him full in the belly.

He caved forward, in nausea and shock, and the second blow, a brutal uppercut, smashed into his face. He began to reel backward, but the other was upon him.

The blackness rolled over him. Idiotically, the last thought that went through his brain was, After all this I’ll be in no shape tomorrow to attend that party of Carla Rossi’s.…