She brought her eyes up and to his and the flush deepened. "I thought you might be lonesome," she said, her voice low.
Roy stared at her. Plain, Mary Ann might be, but even the dreary nightclothes she wore couldn't disguise the healthy womanly body. Her breasts were high, her waist taut, her legs surprisingly long. Roy hadn't noticed those legs before. It seldom occurred to men to scrutinize the Mary Ann equipment.
For a moment, he couldn't remember when last he had bedded a woman. It had probably been one of the Wobbly members.
Roy said, after running a hand through his faded brown hair, "Sit down, Mary Ann."
She sat on the edge of the bed and again avoided his eyes.
He said, "Look, there's obviously no future in me. If we happen to get caught up emotionally—well, I won't be able to feel grief.''
She didn't say anything to that.
He said, an edge in his voice, "I don't want charity, Mary Ann."
She looked up at him. "Then you're a fool. I do, Roy. I'm lonesome, too."
He said quickly, "I'm not exactly the romantic type. I know what I look like, what I am. Those four boys guarding me are more nearly your own age. And they're all good, healthy…"
"Oh, shut up," she said. She threw back the bedclothes and squirmed herself in beside him, after tossing her bathrobe to the foot of the bed and kicking off her slippers. "I'm not interested in boys. I'm interested in a loving man." She flicked off the night table light. "And you're the most loving man I've ever met, Roy Cos."
Chapter Fourteen: Frank Pinell
Frank and Nat Fraser got off the metro at the Odeon Station and started up the street. As in practically all large cities these days, vehicular traffic in Paris was at a minimum though pedestrians and bicycles occupied the streets even at this time of night in Left Bank, still the home of artists and Sorbonne students.
Nat Fraser looked over at his younger companion approvingly. He said, "Cobber, you look like a regular toff in those new duds. A little on the Frenchy side, gawdstrewth."
Frank snorted at the tall, gawky Australian. "They ought to look good, you ponied up enough credits to outfit me."
"Nothing's too good for a cove working for the bloody Graf." Nat looked up at a street sign. "Rue Monsieur Le Prince," he read. "That's it."
Frank said, "Who's this Colonel Boris Rivas?"
"Old-time mercenary. Mostly Africa and Near East. Last time I saw him was in Yemen. He had a contract there with some fifty commandos and a few hundred ragheads. Too bloody-minded by far for my liking, cobber. I was done on the bone but I did a bunk instead of joining up."
Frank frowned. "Now I really need a translation."
"I don't go for finishing off women, kids, and old folks. Fair dinkum, I don't. Rape, killing civilians, looting—old Boris gets his lollies out of it. Bad business. If the situation pickles, you might have to depend on those women and old coves. Hide you, feed you, if they're lucky enough as to have anything to eat. Maybe nurse you, if you've copped one."
He looked up at a sign over the doorway of a dilapidated building that looked a good two centuries or more in age. Hotel Balcon.
"This is it, cobber. Just follow me bloody lead. Rivas is competition to the Graf. This is his last bloody chance. He comes in with the mucking organization, or the barstid's had it, and that's the dinkum oil."
"You mean we, uh, shoot him?"
The other grinned cheerfully. "More likely he'd shoot us first, cobber. But we're here under a bloody flag of bloody truce. Let's go."
The hotel lobby was no more impressive than the outside of the building. It had the odor of long decay. Its lone occupant was a bent old man behind the desk, obviously the concierge.
"What room's Rivas in, cobber?" the Aussie said.
To Frank's surprise, the old man spoke English. "Top floor. Room 505."
"Too right," Nat said, and made a gesture with his head. "Get your arse out of here." The old-timer studied the set of Nat's jaw, then scooted out a door behind his desk.
Frank looked at him in surprise.
"He's been paid," Nat said, heading for the stairway. There was no elevator.
The building was five stories high and Nat Fraser had obviously been in third-class French hotels before. At each landing he pushed a button in the wall which turned on a low wattage bulb just long enough for them to reach the next landing. The management of the Hotel Balcon did not waste electrical power.
On the fifth floor, the pressing of the light button gave them just enough time to find room 505. Nat Fraser knocked on the door and the hall light flicked off before the portal opened.
A huge black was there, almost as tall as the Australian and, if anything, broader of shoulder, deeper of chest. He was the blackest man Frank Pinell had ever seen—actually ebony in complexion—yet his face was more nearly European than Bantu. He was a beautiful physical specimen and his movements belied his size; he moved like a black leopard.
Nat said, "The colonel is expecting us."
The black opened the door wide without change of expression. Room 505 turned out to be a small suite. Since doors were open, it could be seen that there were two bedchambers and a bath. The place was better furnished, more comfortable than would have been expected of the Hotel Balcon.
The room they had entered was filled with chairs, a table, files, piles of papers, maps, and correspondence. Behind an old metal desk sat Colonel Boris Rivas. Rivas sat straight in his chair, his posture military. His face was dark and somewhat oily, so that he looked more like a Greek or Turk than a Frenchman. His black hair was streaked with gray and looked as though it could use a shampoo. He was on the brawny side, and wore his civilian clothing uncomfortably.
His dark eyes gleamed dislike but he said, in passable English, "Sit down, Fraser." He looked at Frank, sent his eyes over to Nat again, but then brought them back to Frank, whom he took in at greater length. "And who is this?" he demanded.
Nat had taken one of the comfort chairs, crossing his long legs. Frank sat down in the other. The big black leaned against the wall and watched them, his face still expressionless.
The Australian pushed his bush hat to the back of his head and said, "The arrangement was that there be two of us and two of you. Fair dinkum. This is Frank Pinell, one of the Grafs newest boys. Frank, our cheeky cove behind the desk is Colonel Boris Rivas. Who bloody well promoted him to colonel, nobody seems to know."
"That's enough provocative talk, Fraser," the colonel snapped. "And this is Sergeant Sengor, long ago of the Senegalese Airborne Commandos, my right-hand man—and bodyguard." The colonel brought his eyes back to Frank and said, "You wouldn't be related to the late Buck Pinell, would you? There is a resemblance."
Frank wrinkled his forehead and said, "My father's name was Willard."
"He was a mercenary?"
Frank said uncomfortably, "Could be. I was very young when he died and I was told very little about him."
"If you're the son of Buck Pinell, I'm surprised to see you in the employ of Brandenburg. Pinell was a man. The Graf is a wolf."
Nat said, "Cooee, who's giving with the mucking provocative talk now?"
Rivas ignored him. "I've always suspected that Graf Lothar von Brandenburg was responsible for Buck Pinell's death."
"Pull your head in," the big Australian growled. "A fine bloke you are to throw such narky nonsense around. You're crazy as a kookaburra if you think the Graf did Buck in. They cobbered up with each other when they were both no older than joeys." He looked over at Frank. "I never met Buck Pinell meself; before me time, gawdstrewth. But if he was your father, he was a wowser, from all they say."
The colonel hit his desk a double rap in impatience. "Shall we get on with it?" he said. "You contacted me for a meeting. Very well, what do you have to say? I warn you, I will not be intimidated by Brandenburg's cheap threats."