Free JC2 The Raiders by Harold Robbins Page A

He could think of a
thousand other calls he wanted to make, and he gave orders to his
people at the offices with descramblers to telephone this person and
that, saying they had heard from him and he had ordered them to relay
a message. It was not a satisfying way to do business.
    On his fourth night in the suite, Morris Chandler offered to be host
for dinner, which he would have room service bring up.
    "What you need up here is a cute girl," he said to Jonas.
    "What I need is an executive secretary," said Jonas.
    Chandler laughed. "A horizontal secretary."
    "No, seriously. A secretary. I can't bring in my executive
secretary, and I need a woman who's competent and I can trust."
    Chandler glanced at Nevada and shrugged. "If you say so,"
he said.
    They ate lobster, which were flown in on ice and were kept live in a
tank in the hotel. Chandler and Nevada talked a little about old
times in New Orleans. Jonas guessed that was where they had met, in
Storyville, in one of the celebrated old whorehouses. At least, both
of them had been there in the early years of the century. Both
remembered a whore who had always worn a black satin mask trimmed
with lace and received her callers while reclining nude on a red
plush settee. The rumor had been that she was the wife of a prominent
New Orleans cotton broker.
    They remembered musicians: a pianist named Ned and
a trumpet player named Charley. They spoke of something called herb
sainte , which Jonas deduced was a fiery liquor as destructive of
a man's mind as the wormwood-tainted absinthe the French used to
make, which was now illegal in every country in the world. They
laughed about how it had got them in trouble.
    Abruptly Chandler broke off the reminiscences and spoke to Jonas.
"You want an executive secretary? Trustworthy and competent, you
said. How 'bout one that's honest and competent and you can trust —
and would probably be glad to sleep with you, too?"
    "They don't make 'em like that," said Jonas.
    "Trust me," said Chandler. "I'll send somebody up for
you to interview in the morning."
    He did. She arrived at half past nine, and she was more of a surprise
to him than Morris Chandler had been.
    "Mr. Cord? My name is Mrs. Wyatt. Mr. Chandler sent me up to be
interviewed as a possible executive secretary."
    She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and Jonas
formed a quick determination that he would take her to bed as soon as
he possibly could. Golden-blond hair surrounded the perfect features
of her face. She was flawless. He couldn't see anything wrong with
her, unless maybe it was that her eyebrows were distinctly darker
than her hair. She wore a putty-colored linen pullover and a tailored
knee-length dark-gray skirt, white shoes with thin high heels, and
smooth, sheer nylon stockings on long, sleek legs. She was no girl.
She was probably thirty-two or -three. She wore on her face a look of
worldliness, even of world-weariness, that suggested she had seen a
lot and had a few things to regret.
    "Come in, Mrs. Wyatt, and sit down," he said. "I just
sent the table back down, but I can order us another pot of coffee if
you'd like some."
    "You needn't," she said.
    "I think I will anyway. I could use some myself."
    She sat down gracefully, crossing her legs below her knees the way
girls in finishing schools were taught to do. Her skirt crept up a
little, but she had it under control and showed no more leg than she
wanted to.
    Jonas picked up the telephone and ordered coffee, knowing a few small
pastries would come with it.
    "I'll be blunt, Mrs. Wyatt," he said. "Why did Morris
Chandler recommend you?"
    "He told me what your requirements are," she said plainly.
"He judged I could meet them, and so do I."
    "What is your experience?" he asked.
    "I was a secretary with Boise-Cascade Corporation. The last four
years I was there I was an executive secretary. Then I got married,
and then I got divorced."
    "Do you have any children?"
    "No, sir. After my divorce, I worked again