Authors: Robbins Harold
Von Kuppen stared at him. "It's a trick." He looked around the parking lot. The Citroen was the only other car there. "Where's the Cadillac?"
Jeremy stared at him coldly without answering.
The senior policeman spoke up. "Where is the Cadillac, monsieur?"
Jeremy shrugged. "I don't know."
"You don't know, monsieur?" The gendarme's voice was skeptical.
"That's right. When I went out last night I met a friend in front of the Casino de la Mediterranee. He said he'd like to try out my Cadillac for the evening so we swapped cars.” "Swapped?" The policeman's voice was puzzled.
"Exchanged. The last I saw he was driving it down the Boulevard des Anglais." "What time was this, monsieur?"
He shrugged. "I don't remember exactly. Ten-thirty, eleven o'clock."
"You must know this man very well to exchange your big car for this one."
"Well, you don't swap cars with strangers."
"He's lying!" Von Kuppen shouted angrily. "Can't you see he's just playing for time?"
Jeremy's voice filled with contempt. "You're sick, you know. Has anyone ever suggested you see a psychiatrist?"
Von Kuppen flushed and took a threatening step forward. Unobtrusively the gendarme stepped between them. "Do you mind giving us the name of this gentleman to whom you gave your car?"
Over the policeman's shoulder Jeremy saw the Cadillac turn into the driveway. "Not at all," he said casually. "As a matter of fact, here he comes now. Monsieur Xenos. You may have heard of him?"
"We know the gentleman," the gendarme replied dryly. He turned as the Cadillac pulled to a stop.
Jeremy walked over. "How do you like it, Dax?"
"It's a beauty. But a little too big for the roads here, I'm afraid."
Von Kuppen was raging. "It's a plot," he shouted. "Can't you see they're in this together?"
Dax turned to stare at him. "Who is this man?"
"His name's Von Kuppen," Jeremy answered. "He thinks that—"
"Von Kuppen?" Dax interrupted. "That saves me a great deal of trouble. I was going to look him up after I returned your car."
He got out of the Cadillac and walked around to the other side. "I have a message for you from your wife."
"You see?" Von Kuppen was almost hysterical. "I told you there was a plot!"
"Plot?" Dax looked amused. "What plot?"
"Von Kuppen claims I kidnapped his wife from their hotel last night."
Dax laughed. "I'm sorry," he apologized, "I did not mean to involve you in my—er—affairs." He turned to the gendarmes and spoke rapidly in French. "Mrs. Von Kuppen was not kidnapped. She came with me quite willingly. She said that she was through with her husband, that she had had enough of him and wanted to get away. I stopped by for her after she telephoned me."
"He's lying!" Von Kuppen shouted.
Dax took an envelope from his pocket. "Before you make any accusations you may have to answer for in a court of libel, I suggest you read this note from your wife."
Von Kuppen tore open the envelope. From where they were standing, Jeremy thought the contents looked like photographs along with a piece of note paper.
Von Kuppen's face was white. "I don't understand. I demand to see her. I must speak with her."
"She doesn't wish to see you," Dax replied. "She asks that you return her passport at once."
"But I must see her," Von Kuppen said, "she's my wife. You can't stop me from seeing her."
Dax's voice was cold. "I can and will. She's at my villa, and for your information I am Ambassador at Large of the Republic of Corteguay on a diplomatic mission to France. This automatically places my residence under diplomatic immunity." He turned to the senior gendarme. "Is that correct monsieur?"
The policeman nodded. "If it is a matter of diplomacy," he said with typical French relief at getting out of a difficult situation, "of course it is out of my jurisdiction."
Dax turned back to Von Kuppen. "In addition to the message I gave you, of which I have copies, I have also a statement from your wife sworn before a notaire. I also have one from her doctor, regarding her physical condition. I trust it will not be necessary to take these to court to force the return of her passport. Shall I instigate an injunction barring you from contacting her physically?"
Von Kuppen stared at him silently, then turned to Jeremy. "What did you do to her?" he asked bitterly. "We never had any trouble before you came along."
"You've got to be sick if you believe that." Jeremy turned his back and spoke to his father. "Let's go back in, Dad. I need a good breakfast."
Silently they walked back to the house, leaving Von Kuppen and the policemen in the yard. A few minutes later they heard an automobile pull out of the driveway. When the sound of the car faded, Hadley looked at Jeremy. "You did take her from the hotel, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Why did you ever do such a damn-fool thing?"
Jeremy looked at Dax. "They were photographs, weren't they?"
Dax nodded and took another set from his pocket. Silently Jeremy handed them to his father without even looking at them. The old man opened the envelope and stared at the pictures. "My God!"
"That wasn't all, Dad. When I got to the hotel he had her handcuffed by her ankle to the bed. I said the son of a bitch was sick and I meant it."
His father looked at the two of them. "We were lucky Dax was around to bail us out of this one. I hate to think what a mess this could have turned into if he hadn't."
"Don't you think I thought of that?" Jeremy asked. "Do you honestly believe I liked the idea of prejudicing Jim's chance of going to Congress?"
"Jim's chance?" His father glared at him. "I thought you understood by now."
"Understood what?"
"Why I told you not to take other jobs offered you. It's not Jim who's going to run for Congress. It's you!"
CHAPTER 17
Robert was reading the newspaper when Denisonde came into the small apartment, the almost empty shopping bag hanging from her hand. She stopped in the doorway. "You're home early."
He didn't take his eyes from the paper. His lips still moved as he painfully translated the Hebrew into French.
At last he completed the sentence and looked up. "There was nothing to do in the office. They gave me the afternoon off."
Denisonde closed the door behind her and walked into the kitchen. In the doorway she turned. "A new France-Soir came in the mail. I put it on the table near your bed."
"Thanks." He got to his feet, then, not wanting to appear too eager about the newspaper, asked, "How did it go with you today?"
She shrugged. "The same as usual. I'm sure the butcher understands French but he pretended not to. He made me speak Hebrew, and when all of them had had their laugh at my expense he told me he didn't have any meat anyway."
"But the new ration stamps are effective today."
"That's what I told the butcher. He said that I knew it and he knew it but somebody forgot to tell the steer."
"What did you get?"
"Potatoes and a piece of fat lamb."
"You went to the black market again?"
"Did you feel like plain boiled potatoes again?"
Robert didn't answer for a moment and when he did his voice was bitter. "Perhaps the Arabs don't want us here but they're getting rich off us."
"The Arabs aren't the only ones who don't want us here."
"It will be different now that the British have gone."
"So I've been hearing for months." Denisonde wearily pushed her hair away from her face. "Besides, it wasn't the British I was talking about."
He stared at her without answering, then turned and went into the bedroom. In a moment he came back with the newspaper in his hand. "Did you see the picture and story about Dax on the front page?"
"No." She came over and stood beside him. "What does it say?"
He read for a moment, then his face broke into a smile. "Dax never changes. It seems he kidnapped some rich German's wife from their hotel in Nice. And when the German came to get her back Dax claimed he couldn't because his villa was covered by diplomatic immunity."
"Does it give her name?"
Robert shook his head.
She turned back to the sink and ran water into a pot.
Then she took a small brush and began to scrub the potatoes.
"Why don't you peel them?"
"There are good minerals in the skins. Besides, there are only five small ones. That's all I could get."
"Oh." He sat down and buried himself in the newspaper.
They were silent while she busied herself. She cut the potatoes in quarters, the lamb into small pieces, then put it all into the pot with some greens she had been hoarding. She took one small onion from the closet, and dropped that in the pot. She stood looking at it for moment, and then opened the closet door again. The remaining onion went in with the first one. She added salt and pepper and put a cover over the pot. It wasn't exactly gourmet cooking but it was better than nothing.
"They have two whole pages on the new couture," Robert said without looking up. "Would you like to see them?"
"Thank you." She walked over and took the part of the paper he held out. She sat down in a chair opposite him and looked at the first page. One headline ran across the top:
la premiere presentation de la saison
Chanel, Balmain, Dior, Prince Sergei Nikovitch
The page was covered with pictures of the new clothes. She studied hungrily the poses of the models staring haughtily back at her. She closed her eyes. Paris. The time of the showings.
It was electric. No matter who you were, princess or butcher's wife, all the talk would be about the new fashions. Copies of L'Officiel would pass from hand to hand with oohs and aahs over each new trend, and everyone had her opinion as to whether the style would go or not. It didn't matter whether you had bought a new dress in ten years, you still had a right to an opinion. And your neighbors listened as if your name had appeared at the top of the ten-best-dressed list.
Paris was thrilling at that time of the year. The buyers would be there from all over the world. North and South America, Germany, England, Italy, even the Far East. The restaurants and theaters and clubs would be jammed.
How long had it been since she had been in a gay laughing group of people? The Israelis had no sense of humor. They were a grim people. Not that she blamed them. It was a grim world and making a nation was not easy. There wasn't very much to laugh about. Not for them. And when they did laugh their laughter seemed strange and empty, as if it had been torn from them reluctantly.
Denisonde turned the page and a familiar face looked up at her from the center of the sheet. She knew the girl, they had been at Madame Blanchette's together. She had always said that she would be a model. She had finally made it.
Once Denisonde had had such ambitions. It was when she had first come to Paris. But the haute couture houses couldn't use her. Her bust was too large; the suits didn't fall right. She had dieted madly, until there were hollows in her cheeks and large black circles under her eyes, but it didn't help. She was still too busty for haute couture. But finally she did manage to get a job at a lingerie house. The salary was small, and there were two showings a day, plus one in the evening.
Denisonde had been very naive then. The buyers were all men, and she thought nothing of parading around the room clad only in a brassiere and panties. She kept her eyes impersonally on the ceiling as she opened the brassiere and took it off, then put it back on, to demonstrate its construction. And if occasionally a buyer's hand, as often happened, would linger caressingly on her breasts she merely considered it a normal hazard of the business.
And then one day after she had been there almost a week the boss had come back to the dressing room. She looked up at him from where she sat on the chair in front of the mirror. Her brassiere, the last for the evening, which she had just removed, lay on the table. She made no move to cover herself. After all, he was the boss, and he had already seen her and all the other girls more times than she could count.
"Tomorrow you get your first pay."
She nodded with satisfaction. "A week already?"
"Yes, one week."
But there was something in his voice that bothered her. "Are you satisfied with my work?"
"So far. But it's time you paid attention to the other part of your job."
"Other part of the job?" she asked, puzzled.
"Yes. There's a very important buyer here tonight. He wants you to go out with him."
Denisonde was beginning to feel like a parrot. "Go out with him?"
"You know what I mean," he said, his voice suddenly harsh. Then abruptly it softened. "It's not for nothing, you know. You get a hundred francs extra and a five-percent commission on his order."
Denisonde stared at him. It wasn't that -she was shocked. Or even offended. After all, she was French and a realist. Sex was nothing new to her, but until now it had always been at her option. It was just that she was surprised because nothing had been said to her when she took the job.
"And if I don't want to go out with him?"
"There wouldn't be much point in your coming to work tomorrow. I can't afford any girl who won't do her fair share of the work."
Denisonde sat very still for a moment, then picked up her own brassiere from the chair next to her. "No, thanks. If that's the way it is I'd rather be a cocotte. I would make more money."
"You would also have to carry a police card, and you know what that means. No one would ever give you a decent job again. That's the first reference they always check out."
Denisonde didn't answer, merely picked up her skirt from the chair and stepped into it.
"You're being very foolish."
She smiled at him and reached for her blouse. "You mean I've been very foolish."
After that there had never been any question in Denisonde's mind as to her occupation. She had a shrewd mind and an agile body. It hadn't taken her long to secure a good connection with Madame Blanchette. Actually she had been recommended by an inspector of police who told her to come and see him after she got out of the jail where he'd sent her.