The Adventurers (49 page)

CHAPTER 2

The sharp knifelike pain raced through him and Robert moaned softly in his sleep. Vaguely he felt her hand soothing his cheek. "Denisonde," he whispered, then fell back into the uneasy blackness. He still heard the screams echoing down damp stone corridors, the heavy clump of the soldier's boots on the cement floor outside his cell.

He moaned again in his sleep, then suddenly sat up. He reached out his hand; he was alone in the bed. "Denisonde!" he screamed, fear mounting uncontrollably. "Denisonde!"

The bedroom door opened. "I'm here, Robert." She held out a glass. "Drink this."

Gratefully he took the glass and sipped the warm liquid. It was sweet and soothing. "I thought you had gone out," he said huskily.

"You know I wouldn't do that." She took the empty glass. "Now try to go back to sleep."

He stretched out again, his hand still clutching her fingers. Already the opiate was clouding his eyes. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

She watched and when he was asleep she went out into the other room. The coffee was hot on the stove and she took a cup to the table and sat down. Idly she glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. She reached for the telephone and dialed a number. A girl's voice answered.

"Yvette?"

"Oui."

"Are you dressed?"

"Oui."

"I have a date I can't keep."

"How much?"

'Twenty-five hundred francs."

"It's not worth it," Yvette said quickly. "I give you half, there's nothing in it for me."

"You don't have to give me half. I'll take five hundred francs."

"D'accord. Where do I meet him and how will I know him?"

When Denisonde put down the phone she stared at it for a moment. There were too many like this. She had lost too many customers lately, but there was nothing she could do about it. She could not leave Robert when he was so sick.

She sipped at the coffee and lit a cigarette. Men were such fools. Even with whores they liked to feel they were something special, and when she didn't show up for a date that was generally the end of a client. And in the two years she had been with Robert she had lost far too many. Most of her steadies were gone and everyone knew that the foundation of any girl's business was the repeaters.

For the last few months, in order to earn enough for them to five on, she had taken to the streets again like a rank beginner. Twice already she had been picked up by the flics, but luckily she had been able to talk her way out of it. She stared thoughtfully at the bedroom door.

Something would have to be done soon. What it would be she did not know. Only the man asleep behind that door knew. Only he could supply the answers. Even now she didn't know the whole story of what had happened that day he appeared at her door two years ago.

The war had been over for almost a year, and for a while they had lost touch. His father had come back from America and Robert had gone to work in the bank. The one time he had come to see her, oddly enough, he had taken her out to tea. Nothing more.

She had looked at his thin drawn face across the table. "You still have pain?"

"A little. But the doctors assure me it will pass in time."

"Your sister, she is all right? I hear she married that South American."

"Dax? Yes, she is with him in the United States."

A memory of the dark intense face came to her. "I hope she is happy."

He looked at her sharply. "What makes you say that?"

"I don't know."

"The war changed many things for my sister and me. I don't know if either of us can ever really be happy again."

"You will be happy again. In time the war will recede. Look around you; already people are beginning to forget. You will, too."

Robert had glanced around the crowded tearoom. Suddenly his lips tightened and he got to his feet. He threw a banknote on the table. "Come on, let's get out of here."

She had followed him into the street. He turned and looked at her. "I'll walk you back to your place."

"I don't want to take you out of your way. You must be very busy."

His lips twisted wryly. "I am; my father has acquired the world's busiest errand boy. Me."

"I'm sure he has other plans for you."

"If he has he's keeping them a secret." He put a hand under her arm. "Let's go."

"You sound angry. Is it my fault?"

"No, it's not your fault. Really."

When they had reached her building she had said, "Would you like to come up?"

He had shaken his head.

She was silent for a moment, then held out her hand.

"Thank you for the tea," she had said, almost primly. "It was very nice."

"Denisonde?" He held onto her hand.

She looked up into his eyes. They were darkly somber. "Yes, Robert?"

"Is there anything you want? Anything I can do for you?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "There is nothing, thank you. I have everything I need. I manage very well."

"You do."

"Robert, what is wrong? What is it?"

"Nothing." Then his voice had turned bitter, and he had dropped her hand. "There must be something wrong with me. I don't manage very well at all."

She had watched him turn the corner before she had gone up to her apartment. Right then she had sensed that he would be back. How, when or why, she was not sure. But he would come back. And she was strangely sad because she knew that when he did it would not be good for either of them.

Later that same afternoon Robert sat at his desk studying the papers in front of him. The heading across the top of the first sheet fascinated him:

DER KUPPEN FARBEN GESELLSCHAFT

Beneath it were fifty other pages, each containing the details and balance sheets of the many different companies which had made up the largest industrial complex in Germany. During the war these companies had been the primary targets for all Allied bombers. Now they were merely pieces of paper on his desk.

They had been brought in to him by his father's personal secretary several days ago. Attached was a short note in his father's hand. "Study these, then see me Friday morning."

As he opened the folder he wondered why his father was interested in the Kuppen companies. He had read in the papers the week before that the Allies had formed a commission to study the overall company and formulate plans to dissolve the complex. They felt that like Krupp, Kuppen had too great a war-making potential.

A thought entered his mind. It might be that his father was being asked to represent France on the commission. A smile came to his lips; in that case it would be a pleasure to work on such a project. It seemed almost as if he had grown up with a hatred for the name because it was somehow tied up with every engine of destruction that had come out of Germany. Aircraft, submarines, the Kuppen V4 bombs that helped rain destruction on England, even the Kuppen rifle, which had been standard equipment in the Nazi army. It would be a joy to tear such a company apart.

The telephone on his desk rang. He picked it up. It was his father's secretary. "The baron is ready to see you now."

"I'll be right in."

His father looked up as Robert came into the office. He gestured to a chair. "You read the reports?"

"Yes, Father."

"You also are aware that last month the Baron Von Kuppen was sentenced to five years in prison for his part in the war crimes?"

Robert nodded.

"And that also last week a commission was formed to break up the various companies?"

"And about time!" Robert burst out. "It should have been done after the first war. Perhaps then the Nazis might never have got started."

The baron looked at him placidly. "Is that why you think I gave you those reports to study?"

"What other reason could there be? Obviously the commission has requested your expert advice."

His father was silent for a moment. "Either you're a complete idiot or a naive fool, and I don't know which is worse."

Robert was confused. "I don't understand."

"You've read an analysis of the stockholdings, I presume?"

Robert nodded.

"You noticed perhaps that the largest stockholder exclusive of the Von Kuppen family is Credit Zurich International of Switzerland?"

"Yes, they own thirty percent." Suddenly a rocket exploded inside his head. "C.Z.I.!"

"That's right," his father said dryly. "C.Z.I. Credit Zurich International. Our bank in Switzerland."

"It doesn't make sense. That means we own thirty percent of the Kuppen Farben?"

"Exactly," his father answered quietly. "And that's why we can't let them break it up."

"Then we've been making war against ourselves? And receiving a profit out of it at the same time?"

"I told you not to be an idiot. We made no profit out of the war. Our equity was confiscated by Hitler."

"Then what makes you think we have it back now?"

"Baron Von Kuppen is a gentleman. I have an assignment from him to the effect that he did not recognize the edict of the Nazis. He will honor his obligation."

"Sure," Robert said, his voice turned sarcastic. "What has he got to lose? His seventy percent of what we may save for him will be worth a hell of a lot more than the hundred percent of nothing he will have if the commission breaks the company up."

"You're talking like a child."

"Am I?" Robert got to his feet. "Perhaps you've forgotten. These are the people who set out to wipe us off the face of the earth. These are the ones who dragged your daughter into a prison and raped and beat her. These are the same men who tortured me to get me to betray my countrymen. Have you forgotten all this, Father?"

His father's eyes were steady. "I haven't forgotten. But what has that got to do with it? The war is over."

"Is it, Father?" Angrily Robert took his jacket off and rolled his shirt sleeve up over his forearm. He leaned over his father's desk. "Is the war over, Father? Look at my arm and tell me if you still think so!"

The baron looked down at Robert's arm. "I don't understand."

"Then let me explain. See those tiny punctures? They're needle marks, and you can thank your Nazi friends for them. They couldn't get information out of me any other way, so they turned me into a drug addict. Day after day they shot me full of heroin. Then one morning they stopped. Do you have any idea what that is like, Father? You still say the war is over for me?"

"Robert." The baron's voice trembled. "I didn't know. We'll get doctors. You can be cured."

Robert's voice suddenly broke. "I tried, Papa. It's no use. I live with enough pain as it is, I can't take any more."

"You must go away and rest. We'll find a way to help you. I'll figure out another way to handle Kuppen Farben."

"Let it go, Papa, we don't need it! Let them break it up!"

His father looked at him. "I can't. There are others, our cousins in England and America. I'm responsible to all of them."

"Tell them how we feel then. I'm certain they'll agree with us."

His father was silent.

Slowly Robert rolled down his sleeve and picked up his jacket. He walked toward the door. "I'm sorry, Father."

The baron looked at him. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going away," Robert said. "That's what you said I should do, didn't you?"

CHAPTER 3

Denisonde got up from the table in answer to the knock on the door. "Monsieur le baron!"

Baron de Coyne looked at her hesitantly. "Is my son here?"

She nodded. "But he's asleep, m'sieur."

"Oh." The baron stood outside the door awkwardly.

"Excuse me, I seem to have forgotten my manners. Won't you come in?"

"Thank you." The baron followed her into the apartment.

She closed the door and studied him. The baron had grown old. His face was lean and lined, his hair thinned, gray. "You don't remember me, m'sieur?"

The baron shook his head.

"We met once, before the war. At Madame Blanchette's."

"Oh, yes." But looking at him, she realized that he did not. "You must have been just a child then."

She smiled. "Let me get you a coffee. Then I will go and see if Robert is awake."

As she placed the cup before him he said, "If he is asleep, don't disturb him. I can wait."

"Oui, m'sieur."

Robert was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Who's out there?" he asked suspiciously. "I told you not to make any dates until I had gone for the day."

"It's your father."

He was silent for a moment, staring at her. "Tell him to go away, I don't want to see him."

She stood there without moving.

"You heard me!" he shouted, suddenly angry.

She still did not move.

He glared at her angrily but at last it was he who had to give in. "Oh, all right." He swung a leg off the bed. "I'll see him. Help me to dress."

Left alone, the baron took a cigarette from the long thin gold case and lit it. Delicately he sipped at the coffee and glanced around the meagerly furnished apartment. Nothing was right any more. Not since the war. All the old standards seemed to have vanished.

When he was a young man, new to his father's office, he had been content to spend the long years necessary to gain the experience which would earn the confidence of his elders. The young people of today were in too much of a hurry. He could sense it in almost every department of the bank. He could feel it as he walked through the offices. It was apparent in the almost diffident manner in which the juniors regarded their superiors. It was as if they knew the answers before the questions were even asked.

More than once he had become aware of the skeptical, challenging look on their faces at his own orders. What makes you think you're right? they seemed to be asking. What makes you think you know so much? He should have recognized it long ago. He had seen it on the faces of his own children when war broke out and he had wanted them to come to America. They chose to remain, like the run-of-the-mill man in the street who had no choice. They had no conception of their position in society, or that it raised them above the vulgarity of the conflict.