The Rich Shall Inherit (71 page)

He lumbered clumsily to his feet, knocking the tray of sweets to the floor. “You’re a clever woman, Poppy,” he said, his face white with rage.

“In my business, I have to take care of myself,” she replied. “But there’s one more thing, Jacob. No one but you knows about my boy. If word gets out about him, or if Rogan ever hears about Numéro Seize, I shall know who it was. I’m warning you now, Jacob, it would be very unwise.”

He picked up the brandy glass and drained it. “We shall call it quits then, Poppy,” he said, managing his old smile. “I might have known you would be too smart for me. You’re the only one who can ever say she’s beaten Jacob Le Fanu.”

“But of course I would never say that, Jacob,” she said, pretending to be shocked.

“Friends, then?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“Friends,” she agreed, smiling.

But even when several dozen more red roses arrived with a note of apology the following day, she knew he was an enemy.

1925, France

It was Khalim Le Fanu’s eighteenth birthday and his father had promised him the time of his life. “Bring a dozen of your young friends to Paris for a weekend, Khalim,” he’d told him generously. “We’ll put them all up at the Ritz; they’ll have dinner at Maxim’s, and then you can to on to any nightclub you fancy. I want you to have a good time, son,” he’d said, winking knowingly. “Oh, and Khalim, make sure you invite that nice boy you told me about, Rogan.”

Rogan was seventeen now, and a strong, husky-looking young man. He stood six foot three in his socks with the broad-shouldered muscular body of an athlete and the deep voice of a man. He had been surprised but thrilled to be included in Khalim’s party; Khalim was a good-looking popular boy in the class a year above him, and Rogan was especially looking forward to it because somehow his mother didn’t allow him to go to Paris too often.

Mr. Le Fanu had taken over half a floor at the Ritz for his son’s party. He’d stocked it with champagne and food, and outside in the rue Cambon was Khalim’s present, a scarlet Bugatti sports car. His friends were all treated to a set of diamond studs to commemorate the occasion and at ten o’clock that night they set out for Maxim’s in evening clothes and high spirits.

They had been drinking champagne all evening and were all a little drunk when they arrived. As the waiters carried in a small mountain of caviar and slabs of smooth creamy pate de foie gras, and a platter glistening with fresh oysters and seafoods, Khalim warned them to take it easy on the wine. “Wait till later,” he said grinning. “You’re going to need all your strength for the girls.”

The “girls” had been their main topic of conversation, after Khalim’s new car, of course, and Rogan felt an anticipatory stirring in his loins as he contemplated the delights in store. Some of the boys claimed to have had a girl before, though he wasn’t sure it was true, and they were all nervous. “It’s easy,” Khalim boasted, “and the girls at Numéro Seize will make it even easier for you. My father told me they’re the best-looking women in the world.”

Rogan ate another oyster because someone had told him it was an aphrodisiac, contemplating the thought of holding one of the best-looking women in the world in his arms, and praying she wouldn’t find him inadequate.

“My father says they’re so experienced,” Khalim said, “they really know how to give a man a good time. We could have had dinner there too—he says it’s one of the best restaurants in Paris—but he thought it would spoil the surprise. He said Maxim’s was where you should go on your eighteenth birthday.”

“He was right,” they agreed enthusiastically, “this is great, Khalim.”

“But first,” he said, prolonging the delicious torture, “we’re going to the Club Tombeau in Montmarte, we’re going to watch the show and we’re going to dance!”

There was more champagne at the Club Tombeau, though not as good as that at the Ritz and Maxim’s; still, they managed to drink quite a lot of it and their confidence rose as they watched the half-naked girls in brief fringed skirts and high heels strutting across the stage.

It was two-thirty when they finally moved on to Numéro Seize, piling out of the cabs in front of the elegant town house, laughing and eager. “Don’t expect a whorehouse,” Khalim told them excitedly. “My father said this is the most exclusive club in Europe. If you haven’t already lost your virginity, then this is the place to do it!”

They stared at the house uncertainly. “Are you sure this is the right place?” joked Rogan. “It looks more like somewhere your family might live.”

They laughed again as Khalim rolled his eyes, grinning. “Imagine living here,” he said, “you’d be exhausted.”

“I’m Khalim Le Fanu,” he said importantly to the gray-haired butler who answered the bell. “My father told you to expect us.”

“Certainly, sir,” Watkins replied, “would you please come in.”

They crowded into the hall, staring around wide-eyed, expecting
to see naked girls draped invitingly across velvet sofas, but there was only a bright green parrot on a stand. But what a stand! They gathered around admiringly. “It’s gold,” marveled Rogan. “Those stones can’t be
real”
gasped someone else. “Just look at those emeralds and diamonds on his legs.” Rogan stared at them, puzzled. He’d thought only Luchay had jeweled legs, but he supposed it must be the latest fashion now to decorate one’s pet. Khalim poked a finger at the bird. “Come on, talk!” he commanded, but the parrot leaned forward and pecked him viciously. He jumped back with a howl of pain and Rogan said, surprised, “They’re not usually vicious! Our parrot looks just like this and he’s as gentle as a lamb.”

“It’s Khalim,” the others laughed, “he took a dislike to you!”

A discreet murmur of conversation came from the candle-lit dining room on their right and they could see a fire burning brightly in the grate in the paneled library at the end of the hall.

“My father said summer or winter, there’s always a fire in the library at Numéro Seize,” Khalim told them as the butler took their black overcoats and white silk scarves. “He said we’ve got to see the cocktail bar and the nightclub.”

“If you follow me, sir, I’ll show you the way,” Watkins said.

They hurried after him, jostling each other and whispering comments about the sumptuous decor. “Are you
sure
it’s the right place?” they whispered to Khalim. “We haven’t seen a single girl yet!”

They exclaimed in awe at the mirrored cocktail bar, and gasped when they saw the blue and silver nightclub. “It’s a bit different from Le Tombeau, eh?” Khalim said, pleased.

“And just look at the girls,”
whispered Rogan. Suddenly it seemed there were dozens of them, tall and short, plump and rounded or elegantly sleek; blondes, brunettes, and redheads, and each one was as delectable as a chocolate and as terriying as an alien from Mars.

A pretty young blonde in red chiffon came toward them. “I’m Olga,” she said in a husky Russian accent. “Come and have some champagne with us and watch the cabaret. Tonight we have a rising new star, Gaby Delorges. She sings the naughtiest songs,” she added with a wink, “but of course you young boys won’t understand, will you?” She laughed as they protested, leading them across the midnight-blue carpeted room to a silver lame table near the front. Soon each boy had a pretty girl next to him and the champagne was flowing once again.

“You’ll like Gaby,” Olga whispered in Rogan’s ear, “she’s the best dancer in Paris and she’s very beautiful.”

“Not more beautiful than you,” he replied, dazzled by her flawless golden skin and short, silken blond hair.

She smiled prettily. “You certainly know the way to a girl’s heart, Rogan,” she murmured.

Gaby Delorges was delightful and alarming, bending her sinuous body into snakelike curves as she slithered on a black velvet chaise longue, singing huskily about how this lover liked her toes, this one her fingers, this one her thighs, this one her breasts … Rogan held his breath as Gaby’s fingers absentmindedly caressed her breasts and he heard Olga laughing softly next to him. “More champagne, Rogan?” she whispered, refilling his glass.

Afterward, they danced and he held her close feeling his manhood stirring as she insinuated her body next to his. He glanced around the candle-lit room, and noticed that some of the boys had already disappeared. “This is a wonderful place,” he told Olga, his voice blurred from the champagne.

“It’s a place where we can make dreams come true,” she whispered, resting her head against his chest. “I promise you your heart’s desire tonight, Rogan.”

The fresh, clean fragrance of her hair was in his nostrils, and impulsively, he bent his head and kissed her.

“I want to kiss you too, Rogan,” she whispered as he nuzzled her neck, “but it’s not permitted here. Come with me to my room.”

Bemused from too much champagne and in an agony of desire, he walked hand in hand with her from the nightclub, stumbling as he emerged into the hall.

“Oops,” Olga cried, laughing, “let me put my arm around you. Perhaps we’d better take the elevator instead of the stairs.”

Rogan leaned against her happily as they waited for the elevator to descend, closing his eyes and envisioning the pleasure to come … just the touch of her hand on his waist gave him such an intense thrill of desire that he couldn’t wait to undress her, to see her naked … to touch her …

With a little whirr the elevator came to a stop and the gilded cage doors opened onto the padded amber-velvet interior and the beautiful red-haired woman inside. She glanced up from the big ledger she was carrying, smiling at them. Suddenly her smile
faded, and the color drained from her face, leaving even her lips bloodless.

“Bonsoir
, Madame Poppy,” Olga murmured, tugging at Rogan’s hand, but it seemed he had turned to stone.

“Leave us, Olga,” Poppy commanded, in her voice as thin as a whiplash, and Olga melted away as though she had never been.

“Rogan, I want to explain,” Poppy said.

“Explain?”
he cried, suddenly stone-cold sober.
“Explain what
, mother? That
you
are the madam of the famous Numéro Seize? God, I should have realized when I saw the parrot in the hall, but I was so naive, I thought it was just the fashion, that all smart parrots were wearing jewels these days! But it’s only the
whorehouse
parrots, isn’t it, Mother?”

“Rogan,” she pleaded, “I’m begging you to listen to me, to let me tell you the truth …”

“All the things you’ve ever bought me,” he went on, horrified by the realization, “everything we own, the farm, Luchay’s jewels, my education … everything was paid for with money from
this place.
My friends’ fathers come here—
they
must know about you … Khalim Le Fanu …”

“Le Fanu?” she cried.
“He
brought you here?”

Rogan’s blue eyes were glazed with horror as he looked at her. “I see now,” he cried, agonized, “everybody must know about you.
About my mother!
All those stories about my dead father—why, I probably never even had one. I’ll bet you didn’t even
know who
he was! I’ve been living a lie, all these years!” His handsome young face crumpled with pain and Poppy stepped closer, putting her hand on his arm comfortingly.

Rogan jumped back as though he’d been burned.
“Don’t touch me
, Mother!” he said, his voice suddenly cold and menacing.
“Don’t even come near me. I never in my life want to see you again.”

“Wait, Rogan,”
she exclaimed as he strode across the hall.
“Rogan, please
…” But he never once looked back at her as he flung open the door and ran into the night.

“Rogan, come back,”
Poppy screamed, running down the steps after him, clinging to the railings for support, calling his name desperately as she watched him run to the end of the street and disappear around the corner.

She finally understood how Franco could murder people, because at that moment, she hated Jacob Le Fanu so much, she wanted to kill him. She wanted to see the life bleeding out of him as hers was now; she wanted to see him cry in agony, as she was. Jacob Le Fanu had waited six long years, but he had got his revenge.

Of course, thought Mike, now it is obvious. In her journals, Poppy had a habit of bestowing names that meant something special to her … Luchay had been Poppy’s “ray of light,” and now he remembered that she had written that, to her, Rogan was her “little messenger from God.” Rogan Messenger … He picked up the copy of Orlando’s written statement that Lieber had sent him, and read it again.

“Grandfather Messenger was born in Paris,” Orlando had said.