Authors: Robbins Harold
That was the way it had been when Marcel had gone to her father for the loan a little over a year ago. He had thought about asking Hadley for the money, then decided against it. James Hadley had a curious kind of morality. There was practically nothing in business he would not do but this was something else. The ugly words "hoarding" and "black marketing" were anathema to him. Whatever he did had to be justified somehow by overall civic benefit. If he should happen to profit by it, so much the better. And he usually did.
"I need four million dollars," Marcel said to Amos. "I can raise perhaps two on my own—"
"Say no more," Amos had replied, holding up a hand and reaching for his checkbook.
Marcel stared at him in amazement. "But don't you want to know what the money is for?"
Amos shook his head, smiling. "I don't have to. After all, it's all in the family, isn't it?"
Marcel's mouth hung open. Then he caught himself. "But I may need more in a short time."
Amos tore the check out with a flourish and held it out toward Marcel. "When you need more just come in and ask."
Twice more Marcel had asked. Each time the check was tendered and there were never any questions. But it was almost over now.
A little while longer and Marcel would be able to repay the loans. Just as soon as he had he would then make his position clear to all of them. It was only a question of time.
CHAPTER 11
Dinner at Abidijan's was long and dull and as boring as usual. After dinner they went into the library for coffee and cognac. Silently Marcel took the cigar proffered by the butler and, carefully clipping the end, lit it with a sigh of satisfaction. One thing Amos did do right. He smoked good cigars. The Havanas were always in perfect condition. Not too moist, not too dry, and with a flavor that seemed to caress the palate.
Amos slipped into his favorite leather chair and looked over at Marcel. "You are acquainted with the Baron de Coyne?" he asked in his peculiar-sounding English.
Marcel nodded. "I worked with him," he said, twisting the truth a necessary fraction. His curiosity was piqued but he knew better than to ask questions.
Amos thought for a moment before continuing. "Perhaps you can help me. There are certain companies in which he and I are mutually interested. We have both submitted offers and now they are playing us off one against the other, forcing up the price."
Marcel shook his head. "Always there are greedy ones." He had heard that De Coyne was transferring most of his assets to the States but he hadn't realized that the baron planned also to become active in American business. "What can I do to help? It will be my privilege."
"Perhaps De Coyne and I could make a mutual agreement. Before the price gets so high it will not be profitable for either of us."
"That sounds reasonable. I'm sure the baron would not be averse to that."
"That was my thought also. But there seems to be no way I can contact him. The lawyers representing him here refuse to talk."
"Let me think about it," Marcel said. "I'll see if I can come up with something."
"Good." Amos got out of his chair and went to the window of the apartment and looked out at the East River. He stared for a moment, then looked at his watch. "She's late."
Marcel was puzzled. "Who's late?"
"The Shooting Star. She was due to pass here at nine-twenty."
Marcel stared at him in surprise. Abidijan owned or controlled one of the largest fleets in the world and yet he knew when an individual tanker was due. Marcel looked at his watch. "Give her a few minutes. It's just nine-thirty now."
Amos came back from the window and sank back into the chair. "Sometimes I think of retiring," he said, "and then I think of all the people depending on me and wonder how I can. I am not growing any younger."
"You're a long way from being old. I only wish I had your energy."
"No, no," Amos replied quickly, "you are a young man. That's why you can say such things. But me—I know better." He puffed at his cigar and sighed. "If only I had sons, even one son, I wouldn't worry." He peered at Marcel shrewdly. "Not that there is anything wrong with the girls. But girls— well, they are girls. If I had a son I could turn the business over to him, then I could take it easy."
Marcel smiled. "With five girls you will have many grandsons."
"Now if I had a son like you," Amos said, ignoring what Marcel had said, "I could leave the business in his hands."
Marcel refused to bite. He knew better. Amos would give away nothing. He would always remain in control. Until he was dead. And even after, if Marcel knew him at all. He was saved the bother of answering by Anna.
"Father," she called excitedly from the living room, "the Shooting Star is coming up the river!"
Marcel looked at her standing in the doorway and something inside him shivered. For a moment she had sounded exactly like the old man.
Abidijan got up and went to the window. "It's the Shooting
Star," he said, looking at his watch, "and fifteen minutes late, too." He looked at Anna. "Remind me to send a note to her captain in the morning. The reason we publish schedules is because they are to be kept!"
Marcel left a little after ten o'clock, pleading a headache. Anna saw him to the door. "Get some rest," she said, a worried expression on her face. "You look very tired."
He resisted the impulse to tell her that he wasn't tired. He was merely bored. Instead he replied, "A good night's sleep will set me right."
She nodded. "Go right to bed."
"I will. Good night."
The door of the Sutton Place town house closed behind him. He stood in the night and breathed deeply. After the heat of the day the breeze coming from the river seemed almost cool and fresh, though as soon as he started across town the heat returned. After walking a block he could feel the perspiration start trickling down his chest.
He stood on the corner of First Avenue looking for a taxi. As usual when one wanted a cab there were never any around. He looked down the street. Only the lights of some cheap saloons beckoned. He looked at his watch. There were only two places to go at this hour. El Morocco or the Stork. He decided on the first; it was nearer. Only a short walk.
The maitre d' bowed. "Monsieur Campion, good evening. Alone?"
Marcel nodded, his eyes flicking around the room to see who was there. "A small table in a corner if you have one."
"Of course, Monsieur Campion." The maitre d' led Marcel to a table in the corner of the small outer room. It was a good table and he slipped the bill Marcel gave him discreetly into his pocket.
Marcel ordered a small bottle of champagne. He sat there sipping the wine slowly, feeling the air-cooled room erase the torture of the humidity outside. Several people he knew came by, and he nodded politely. Little by little the restaurant began to fill up. Still he sat there, dreading the thought of returning to the heat.
A young woman's voice came from behind him. "Marcel?"
Automatically he rose before turning around. "Mademoiselle de Coyne!"
She held out her hand and he kissed it. "I was hoping I would run into you."
"I'm so glad you did." It was a moment before he realized they were speaking French. "Won't you sit down?"
"Only for a moment," she replied. "I'm with some people."
He pulled out a chair and a waiter hurried over with another glass. "A votre sante. And how is your father?"
"He is well. But things do not go well at home."
"I know."
She glanced around the restaurant. "But here it does not seem to matter."
"They are fortunate; they don't realize how lucky they are." Marcel put down his glass. "I have heard that your father is planning to come here."
"I don't know," Caroline replied. "At the moment everything is so upset. I am returning on the Normandie tomorrow."
"Give your father my regards. And please inform him that if there is anything I can do for him here he has only to command me."
"Thank you." Suddenly she was looking directly into his eyes. "I have inquired everywhere but without success. Would you know where Dax is?"
He might have known that she hadn't stopped merely to see him. There had to be another reason. To her he would always be merely a clerk. His impassive face hid his disappointment. "Of course. Dax is in Europe. Didn't you know?"
She shook her head. "No. 1 didn't."
"He's been there almost a year."
Her disappointment was almost visible. "We never heard from him. He never called."
Suddenly he felt sorry for her. "He's been in Spain on a mission for his government."
"Oh?" A look of concern crossed her face. "Is he safe? He might have been hurt."
"No," he replied reassuringly, "I'm sure he's quite safe. As a matter of fact 1 have heard that he will soon be in France. Perhaps he will look you up then."
"Can you get word to him? It's very important. My father would like very much to talk to him."
"I will try." Now things were beginning to make sense. That was why Hadley had wanted Dax to go to France. Not just for the vague reason he gave. He had probably heard directly from De Coyne. Another piece fell into place.
It was Hadley he should speak to about Abidjan's problem. The lawyers were just a blind. He made up his mind to check them out in the morning.
"Please try to reach him." Caroline got up from the table and held out her hand. "I will be extremely grateful."
He kissed her hand. "It will be my greatest pleasure to be of help to you."
He stood watching her make her way back to her table. He saw her speak to the man on her right and averted his eyes just in time to avoid theirs. Still, he managed to catch a glimpse of the smiles on the faces of the other two at her table, and he felt a tightness inside him.
It was the old story. He had almost forgotten. Europe was still Europe. For a moment a curious kind of hatred boiled up within him. The mere fact that she hadn't offered to introduce them was sign enough that he was not their equal. It would serve the Old World right if they destroyed themselves in their own holocaust.
Now the wine was bitter in his mouth, and he called for his check. He paid it and went out into the night.
CHAPTER 12
When Robert de Coyne came down to breakfast his father was already at table. An opened cablegram lay beside his plate. Silently his father picked it up and handed it to him.
abidijan bidding twelve million up master products stop how high shall i go stop hadley
Robert threw the cable down on the table, a look of disgust on his face. "I don't like it. They're holding us up."
"What can we do about it?" The baron shrugged. "That company is the key to our American operation."
"I thought Hadley was a better trader than that. How did Abidijan hear about it?"
"It doesn't matter now," the baron replied. "We'll have to go to fifteen million."
"That's three times its worth!"
The baron smiled. "Beggars can't be choosers. And in the American market that's just what we are."
Robert picked up his coffee cup just as the butler came into the room. "There's a Monsieur Campion to see your excellency."
"Marcel Campion?" Robert's voice reflected his surprise.
"I believe that was the name, sir."
Robert looked at his father. "I thought Marcel was still in New York."
The baron looked up at the butler. "Have him wait in the library. I shall be in as soon as I finish breakfast."
Marcel was dozing in a chair when they entered the room a half hour later. He got to his feet apologizing. "I beg your pardon, but I just arrived from Lisbon, after flying over from New York."
"Quite all right," the baron answered, but he didn't offer to shake hands. He walked around behind his desk and sat down. "You know my son, Robert?"
Marcel bowed. "Monsieur Robert."
Robert nodded casually. "Marcel,"
Marcel waited for them to ask him to sit. Instead the baron asked casually, in an almost patronizing voice, "What is the occasion for this extraordinary visit?"
Marcel felt the weariness of the long trip seeping through him. Suddenly he seemed to have lost his voice. He stood there gawking.
An annoyed look crossed the baron's face. "Come, speak up. What's on your mind? I have a very busy day before me."
A surge of resentment flooded through Marcel, Nothing had changed, nothing ever would. These people had too long been used to having people crawl to them. It wasn't that way in America. There it was what you were that counted, not who your family had been.
What was he doing here? He no longer needed the baron. Or his money. Or even the association. In America they were beginning to accept him for himself. To hell with the old man. Let him find his own way in America. The whole elaborate scheme he had developed went out the window. Why should he let the De Coynes ride in on his back?
But quickly he found his voice. "My good friend Amos Abidijan suggested I see you in connection with certain companies you both are interested in."
The baron flashed a look at Robert. "Yes?"
"Perhaps there could be a merger of your interests," Marcel continued. "It could possibly result in substantial savings to you both."
The baron looked up at him shrewdly. "And how do you figure in this?"
Suddenly Marcel began to laugh. For the first time he found himself thinking and speaking in English. "Not one fucking bit. I just came for the ride!"
He never regretted that outburst. Never. Not even when he stood in Amos' office two days after Hitler had marched his troops into Poland, and asked for four million dollars to keep from going bankrupt.
It was the sugar that did it. The scheme that was going to make him rich beyond all his wildest dreams. The day after war had been declared in Europe, Roosevelt had put a ceiling on the price of sugar. Four dollars and sixty-five cents per hundred pounds. Marcel had paid $4.85. That was twenty cents per hundred pounds he was out. Four million dollars. And the processors were in no mood to wait for their money. They had him where it hurt and they knew it.